Animal Stories | Animal Jim Racing

Please Note: Story is based on actual facts, as best I recall. Characters names, other than mine have been changed to avoid embarrassment and controversy and avoid yours truly ending up like Thomas Wolfe.

This story will be especially appreciated by anyone who ever experienced a flickering droplight or flashlight while trying to work with it. It is also a lesson in temperament.

Introduction

The year was 1971. I was 29 years old and still a high-spirited young man harboring a short temper. I had been in business in Lacon, Illinois full time about 4 years and racing a car at Oswego, Illinois Drag Strip for three. As for my infamous short temper, in today’s world, over 40 years later, I may have been diagnosed as an “Anger Management” case.
I had a sign in my shop many years back that stated:
“If My Temperament Seems Unstable—It Is Because I Care!”

The Main Players in this Story Are:
Yours Truly- Animal Jim Feurer
The nickname Animal stems from my first serious drag race car, a big Orange 57 wheel standing Mercury. The car’s name, The Big Animal was emblazoned in huge letters on its doors. At that time I was owner of Sun Automotive, a Sunoco Service Station on Route 17 in Lacon, IL. Featuring Auto Repair, Bear Wheel Alignment and Balancing and I also provided Speed Shop parts and service. In 1973 I built my own building a block away on a lot I purchased. It is now called-Animal Jim Racing

Jim White
A Sun Automotive employee back in 1971. Jim, just 21, was a skinny, tall and ultra nervous young man. When upset Jim was subject to hacking like Doc Holiday and pacing the room or running out of the building.

Howard Cole
A high-spirited, semi wild and fun customer and friend of mine in his mid 20s, a construction worker. He worked hard at his profession and was reliable and made good money and paid his bills. All good qualities for a friend and customer. Back then I did lot of work for Howard.

A rare pristine 1960 red Chevy Impala two door hardtop.
Equipped with original 348 Cubic Inch Tri power engine and Turbo Glide automatic transmission. Howard recently purchased this car from another friend and customer of mine. Tri power means the engine has three two barrel carburetors, also coined by enthusiasts as “Three deuces.” It was a high performance option that provided extra power to the engine. Soon in history special high performance American factory cars would be deemed “Muscle Cars”

A totaled 67 Pontiac GTO with 400 engine, Muncie 4 Speed Trans and Heavy Duty Hayes clutch.
This GTO was also Howard’s car. He recently totaled it and bought the 60 Impala 348 tri power to replace it. The 400 GTO was also a Muscle Car”

A fairly New Cheap drop light – (A drop light from Hell!)
The kind with a head, arm and face burning metal shield and cage, ill positioned hanging hook and unruly 50 foot black cord. The type that is notorious to become a bulb flickering SOB piece of crap that most mechanics had to endure at one time or another. My good drop light after many years of hard service had suddenly went bad and this cheap $5.95 droplight was the only thing I could find in our little river town to temporarily replace my good one.

Other miscellanies story characters
This story includes various customers and characters. A mixed collection of folks of all social and age groups that congregate gas stations and garages, usually out of curiosity, wanting entertainment and- or- for social value. A common happening in a business like Sun Automotive.

This was a time period in gas station history before Convenient Stores and Fast Food venders were part of the gas stations. Back in 71 the folks that hung out in my Gas Station / Speed Shop were easily amused. I was the main subject of their admiration hoping I would lose my temper about something and perform for them. Perhaps during a rant I might rip out another phone or throw tools or a wheel rim through a plate glass window! Then they could run and tell about it to any that would listen! Ha ha!
One thing I do want to make clear here. I never exercised my temper hurting someone else or their property. Only myself and my own stuff.

Here Is The Story of— The Drop Light From Hell

The story starts with my friend Howard. He is not happy with the 348 Tri Power engine and Turbo Glide transmission in the red 60 Chevy Impala he recently bought to replace his recently crashed 67 GTO. He says it runs nothing like the 67 GTO had. So Howard wants me to remove the original 348 Tri Power engine and Turbo Glide automatic transmission from the rare pristine 60 Chevy and trans plant the GTO 400 engine, Muncie 4 speed, Hurst shifter, Hayes HD clutch and bell housing that survived Howard’s crashed 67 GTO.

I tried my best to talk him out of messing with that nice all original 348 Tri power 60 Impala. Even back in 71 I did not think it was a wise move to sodomize that nice car.
Don’t get me wrong. The 400 Pontiac GTO was a great engine and the M-22 Muncie with it a great manual transmission. Not to mention the indestructible Hayes 3,000 pound pressure High Performance clutch and steel flywheel that I installed in Howard’s 67 GTO a while back. That was a short time before Howard crashed the GTO.

Howard was firm. He hated that Turbo Glide automatic transmission especially. (Who wouldn’t? They were a piece of crap. Why it was ever used in a performance car as an option to a manual four speed I will never understand) Howard claimed the 348 Chevy engine was a dog compared to his recently totaled 67 GTO 400 Pontiac.

I tried to compromise and suggested to just convert the automatic transmission to the Muncie 4 speed, Hurst Shifter and use a Lakewood Chevy bell housing and the Hayes clutch and flywheel he already had. I could tune the 348 Chevy engine to run stronger.

Nope! Howard wanted the whole GTO power train package installed in his 60 Chevy.
I knew Howard would pay well. I also knew Howard would take the work to some “hacker” that would try to do what he desired anyway and probably mess it up. And —I could always use the cash. Plus I did not want to pee off Howard. He was a good customer and friend. I finally agreed to do it. And with me doing it, the conversion would be done clean and correct.

Believe it or not, Hurst offered a motor mount conversion kit to install a Pontiac engine in a Chevy! I was dazzled! Perhaps I was wrong?? But seriously? How many people ever would put a Pontiac engine in a Chevy? Usually it was the other way around!!

I frequently seem to do a lot of unusual work! I guess that is because most folks know I care about quality and will do a good job. Once I built a killer 1966 Pontiac GTO 389 engine with 8V (8V means Two four barrel carburetors) for a client. All chromed parts and detailed for show. That customer put it in a 58 F-100 Ford Pickup truck. With a good used Lakewood bell housing I found for him and Muncie 4 speed. Amazingly-Hurst made special motor mounts and a Hurst Competition Plus shifter for that 58 F-100 conversion. Unreal! Who would have guessed that?

The conversion on Howard’s 60 Chevy Impala was going well. Even with the unnerving cheap droplight that already developed an occasional flickering off and back on malady. An annoying condition that tends to get on a person’s nerves when it would flicker off, even if hanging undisturbed, would be just when you wanted to check something closely and needing the light from it. Like it had a possessed sick mind of its own. Every time it flickered off, Jim White would cough a couple times and his eyes would dart searching for the door.

My Sunoco gas station had three and ½ bays for service work. The one on the west side I used for bigger time consuming projects like this. It was a separate large added on room made out of concrete blocks. It had its own overhead door at the rear with twelve 12-inch window squares. I had painted the glass squares alternately Sunoco Yellow and Sunoco Blue for privacy. That bay had great Florissant lighting. There was a pair of duplex windows up front in the south wall and the same kind of windows on the west side of the room. The concrete blocks formed a walkthrough doorway up front to the left of the stall adjacent to the main middle bay, which had a lift. The Bear Alignment Rack and Bear Wheel balancer and tire changer were in the huge third stall that was entered by a huge overhead door ninety degrees to the rest of the building from the side street.
This west concrete block added on room where we would work on Howard’s car provided some privacy and I could tie it up for big projects. At times I kept and worked on my racecar in there during race season. I even painted cars in that isolated room at times. The walk doorway had no door but I devised a plastic drop cloth to cover the doorway if painting or just wanted to keep folks out.

With Jim White helping me we had the 348 Chevy engine and undesirable Turbo Glide automatic transmission out of the 60 Chevy Impala in no time. We then degreased, detailed and repainted the 60 Chevy engine bay and transmission tunnel. We did the same with the Pontiac GTO 400 engine, bell housing, the Muncie M22 four speed manual transmission, Hurst shifter etc. I like things I work on clean and neatly detailed.

We installed the Pontiac GTO power train assembly in the 60 Chevy without much problem. The Hurst conversion kit worked great. Other than that damn possessed droplight seemed to be flickering more often. Seeing my discourse with the droplight and knowing my temper, Jim White would cough a little more and his eyes search for an exit escape route when the light would flicker.

Then we ran into a problem. We had the swing set pedal assembly. But the bell crank clutch linkage was lost when the wrecked GTO body was junked. Howard did not have it. We searched the salvage yards and could not find that linkage or any other similar linkage to complete the clutch instillation. Ordering a new one would take over a week.
Howard anxious to hit the road with his Pontiac powered 60 Chevy, suggests a universal hydraulic clutch conversion. I checked and JC Whitney in Chicago had them in stock. (In 1971 JC Whitney was decades away from locating an outlet closer to us near LaSalle Peru) keep in mind back then there were not many High Performance Mail Order venues. No Jegs. No Summit.

Well that solution seemed reasonable. I was no stranger to hydraulic clutch systems. I had worked on many sports car and trucks that came from the factory with hydraulic clutch release systems. Not to mention some Hot Rods with limited space where using custom hydraulic clutch systems was the only option.

A hydraulic clutch release system consists of a master cylinder mounted above on the firewall next to the brake mater cylinder with linkage going to the swing set upper clutch pedal and a lower small slave cylinder mounted on the bell housing or rear of the block with an adjustable linkage rod to the throw out bearing release fork. Brake fluid is the liquid used to supply the hydraulic pressure. So when depressing the clutch pedal it causes the mechanical part of the clutch linkage to function.

The decision was made and I ordered the hydraulic clutch linkage kit from JC Whitney. When it arrived two days later I opened the package. It looked pretty simple. Except I did question if the upper linkage rod would tolerate that heavy-duty Hayes 3,000 pound pressure plate. That piece looked rather lightweight. It was common practice to re-enforce the stock mechanical clutch bell cranks back then when using high pressure clutches. Those old school HP clutches had tremendous pedal pressure. With a pressure plate that strong, lot of folks had trouble holding the clutch pedal to the floor very long. (No soft pedal HP Center Force or Ram Diaphragm systems back then). Prior to the GTO’s destruction, I had re-enforced Howard’s GTO bell crank linkage with gussets when I installed the Hayes 3000 pound clutch. Losing the modified bell crank was a shame. The lower adjustable linkage with the new hydraulic system looked more than substantial but as I said earlier, the upper rod looked weak. About two hours later my helper Jim White and I were about to find out if this system would work without modifications.

With Jim helping we got the hydraulic clutch release system mounted, bled and ready to try.

Being leery of the upper weak looking linkage rod I decided to crawl under the dash with the droplight. Then with Jim White in the driver seat I planned to have him slowly depress the clutch pedal while I observed the linkage’s integrity. Getting under and in position to install and see that linkage function was not easy for my six foot 200 pound body. To get in position under the dash I had to tangle my arms, head and shoulders with wire harnesses, cables, braces and many sharp objects. Even to come back out had to be done with dexterity as not to disturb anything vital under the dash or scrape and scratch your hands, arms, face and shoulders.

I finally weaseled my way into position and also positioned my flickering cheap droplight. I installed the upper clutch linkage. Now to test it. Everything including myself was in position. I signaled Jim to slowly depress the clutch pedal. Slowly down it went and I could see the upper rod starting to depress the upper pedal connection. It was working! Then suddenly the droplight went out just as I heard Jim cuss and heard the clutch pedal suddenly hit the floor. Now with no light I could not see the upper rod which I was sure had bent. By now Jim White is out of the car coughing and pacing some. Rather than untangle myself from under the dash, I told Jim to get me the small flashlight so I could see up where the upper clutch rod linkage was. Jim brought me the small flashlight turned it on and he managed to sneak it to me under the dash. In the cramped very uncomfortable quarters I then slowly and carefully struggled, twisting and turning carefully and managed to shine the flashlight in the correct direction.

Sure enough the rod had bent. But now I needed both hands to disconnect and remove the bent rod. Of course the damn drop light was still not lit. Even shaking the hell out of it was to know avail. So I put the small flashlight in my mouth and shined it upward with my mouth and managed to remove the linkage rod and very carefully removed it and myself from under that miserable claustrophobic position.

Well, now I was going to need a heavier linkage rod. I could not call the manufacturer to see if they offered a heavier rod because the damn local phones were out of order. I realized I would need to fabricate one.

Along with the clutch linkage problem I was having one of those annoying gas station garage days. Dealing with a couple chronic irritating customers, and other situations like a gas customer who drove away with the nozzle still in the car’s gas filler tube, which not only jerked the nozzle off the hose and turned the pump sideways breaking the panels off of it, a dozen promotional give away water glasses that had been displayed on top of the pump went crashing and breaking all over the driveway full of customers cars. Along with that, earlier that day there was an incorrect parts delivery for a critical job in my other bay I needed to finish. And a special one day air part for another job that never showed. To top it off, with the local phones out of order all day so I could not call to find out about my missing one day air package or try to remedy the incorrect parts delivery. Not to mention no phone service impaired all my other every day business phone needs. My temper was right on the edge by then.

I finally figured out a way to make a strong upper clutch linkage out of a long hardened steel punch. It took about an hour to fabricate what I needed. But the result was worth it. There was no way this piece would ever fail.

So between the typical annoying interruptions from various gas station and garage problems Jim and I were ready to repeat the clutch linkage test. I twisted and entwined myself under the dash once again with the small flashlight in my mouth lit and reached up to install my newly fabricated clutch rod. While doing so, low and behold-The damn drop light that was still wedged in position under the dash from the first effort flickered on. Even though I had the lit flashlight in my mouth the additional light was welcome. Only more care had to observed as not to touch the metal housing and cage of that 100 watt drop light. Those drop light metal covers got hot in a hurry with a 100 watt bulb. Hot enough to melt plastic or your flesh in a hurry.

I am now in position with the linkage installed. Jim White is again in the driver seat. I garble a signal best I can with a mouth full of flashlight for Jim to start the descent of the clutch pedal. Slowly, slowly it moves. Almost to the full depression, my God it is going to work. Just as the pedal reaches its climax the droplight from hell, still lit of course, comes clanging down from its position. Being tangled under that dash I cannot move quick enough and the hot metal shield lands right on my face burning the crap out of me.
It is amazing how pain and anger can make even a large person more agile!
I came violently thrashing out from under that dash screaming obscenities raking my arms and hands on all the sharpness and protrusions that could be found under a dashboard. Which on a 60 Chevy are many!

I jerked that drop light out from under the dash. Screaming at it, I grabbed it by the handle with both hands like it was a hostile attacking alien thing. That damn drop light from hell was still plugged in and lit. It seemed to glow even brighter as if in defiance. I went to the concrete block framed walk way and methodically start smashing it back and forth against the concrete doorway edges hard as I could. In unison with the smashing, I invented couplets of a new limerick like swearing vocabulary. Sparks and glass were flying everywhere. Meantime, Jim White was having a serious retching, coughing fit and franticly pacing, almost at a run around the room with panic in his eyes. The more I smashed the drop light the more accelerated the smashing and swearing became. Poor nerve racked Jim White was trapped in the room with a madman with no way out. I was blocking the only exit, which is the walk doorway where I am smashing the droplight to smithereens with my ultra violent tantrum. The overhead door in back is locked and the windows are locked for security. Jim had no way out.

I finally start to tire of smashing the drop light-By then I had been whipping it back and forth by the cord in an overhead arc and smashing it each direction it on the concrete floor. There was nothing left but the end of the electric cord the droplight was once part of just 60 seconds ago. The droplight from hell had been exorcised and vanquished. Then I spy the Pick A Nut assortment next to the doorway.

(Pick a Nut was an commercially serviced inventory of all sizes of nuts, bolts, washers, cotter keys, grease fittings etc. They were in an organized big box like hard cardboard case mounted on the wall. With individual marked drawer like cardboard containers.)

Several boxes of the expensive Pick A Nut fasteners had already been involuntarily tipped over and scattered all over the floor and breaking the containers from my thrashing the drop light next to the display. Seeing all those spilled fasteners and broken containers refueled my fury. I then tore into the whole Pick A Nut inventory dumping, throwing and kicking them all over the room.

By now I am mad at myself for losing my temper. So now I aim to punish myself by making things even worse by destroying more and more of my stuff!

Jim White by now is hysterical. Hardly able to breathe. Luckily for him my smashing and wrath have moved me away from the doorway enough that he squeezed and shot out the door like a wounded pheasant past the small delighted crowd of my groupies that had gathered in the adjoining bay to watch me perform. Then I hear this loud ringing in my ears. Was I having a stroke? Hell I was only 29! What was that ringing in my ears?
It is the phone with its extra loud ringing option. The damn phone! Now the phones are now apparently working again. And of course it is after 5 PM, too late to conduct inquires about my screwed up parts delivery and the missing special one day guaranteed delivery. The extra shop wall phone in that bay which is by the tantrum door area keeps ringing and ringing. My driveway attendant must be too busy outside to answer it. So I take a break in my mega fit. I stop briskly grab the handset of the cradle and answer the phone with a surely “HELLO!” Here it is a damn advertisement solicitation! This infuriates me again. I took care of that in short order cursing and smashing the receiver to the concrete floor. It shattered with parts scattering everywhere. Realizing what I had just done I reacted with more self-punishment by ripping the rest of the phone off the wall and smashing it to the floor and stomping it beyond any hope of salvage. I then worked my way to the south bench throwing various tools, equipment and parts while inventing more foul verse. As a finale I found my two-pound ball peen hammer sitting on the bench. I picked it up and methodically worked over all the south wall windows. After smashing out the two double windows I was physically and mentally exhausted and I felt my self-punishment for losing my temper was fulfilled. I finally started to cool down. With the entertainment ended my fan club dispersed to spread the word around our little town about my latest temper tantrum performance and to practice use of any new creative Animal Jim obscenity couplets they may have learned.

As I surveyed the carnage my tantrum caused, it finally came to me. I think that damn clutch linkage works! I got in the 60 Chevy driver seat and tried it. It felt perfect. Then, with my little flashlight I got under the dash to see if I did much damage when I so violently thrashed out from under it. And the way I had jerked that damn drop light out from underneath the dash. Oh my! I was lucky. Other than a couple disturbed but not hurt wire harnesses that would be simple to remedy, it looked as though I suffered most the damage with a myriad of scratches on my hands and arms. Plus a raspberry burned blister on my cheek from the droplight from hell.

After about an hour of cleaning and straightening up my tantrum debris, I heard a cough at the walk door. Jim White peeked in the room. I told him it was safe. I was ok.
I was over my tantrum. Later that evening we finished the conversion on Howard’s 60 Chevy. Jim and I went for a test drive. The Pontiac GTO powered 60 Chevy of Howards did run very strong and everything worked fine-even the clutch. Howard should be happy.

We then parked the 60 Chevy back inside my shop. The next day I would detail the beautiful 60 Chevy for delivery, figure the bill and call Howard. After closing up the shop for the night, Jim and I went to the tap and grill next door and I bought Jim a couple drinks and supper.

The next day I ordered a good droplight from NAPA. (After 40 years, I still have it. And even after all that time and use it does not flicker!) Howard was thrilled with his Pontiac powered 60 Chevy. I don’t know what ever happened to that car. A while after that job Howard moved to Texas to work the oil fields. Howard comes back home from Texas almost every year to visit family. He always stops to visit me at my Animal Jim Racing shop, which is a block from the Rt. 17 location where my Gas Station was. Usually he buys a current Animal Jim T-shirt. I asked him once what ever became of the 60 Chevy. But I forgot what he told me.

As I got older my temperament smoothed out. I think getting seriously involved in drag racing had a lot to do with it. Also moving to my new shop without gas pumps helped. I learned to be more disciplined and stable. Even though I became more stable-I found out I did still care about my work. I realized I did not have to fly off the handle to prove it.
I finally reasoned the resulting quality of my efforts proved that I did still care. Over the years I found that I care more than most.

I also discovered a very fitting interesting topic after reading a philosophy book by Robert M. Persig. Persig was a philosophy professor and also an avid motorcycle enthusiast. His first book is a book everyone should read. The title is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. In that book Persig proves that:

Quality IS Caring. Those two words are a synonym. You cannot have quality without caring. Just keep your cool while proving you care. Now my shop sign simply says: Quality IS Caring.

I have given this matter lot of thought. First I picked 10 things I thought were most significant. Then, painfully, I edited the list to five. Then suddenly! It came clear to me. Like a diamond bullet to my brain. Other than being born, the most significant turning point in my life was meeting my wife Linda.  If I had not met Linda back in September of 1964, I know my life would have been very different. I would not have had the same daughter & grandchildren. I may have married someone else and had a daughter and grandchildren, but not the same ones. Perhaps I would not have had any children, or perhaps had more children. But my life would have been different no doubt.

My 42 year racing career may not have ever been if I would not have met Linda. Linda was the catalyst that made my racing program blossom. She is the one who encouraged me and pushed me on. Almost like a stage mother. We were like “Words and Music”. Together we made great things happen. We took chances together. Several times in our racing career we jumped off the cliff of opportunity and hoped to grow financial wings on the way down! We always found a way.

There is no doubt Linda was the main turning point of my life. Look at the facts. When I met Linda in 1964 I was 23. That was 47 years ago. Two thirds of my life was changed because of my wife Linda. That is huge! From 23 years old to 70! Now that I am satisfied I have established my wife Linda of 46 years as the most important event in my life, I must tell you how we met and ended up together for better or worse.

It was September of 64. I had just mustered out of Fort Dix NJ. I was back home in Peru, IL., staying with my folks. My only love at this time was my 63 427 Black Mercury and of course having a good time. One night my 427 Merc fresh out of storage and I were visiting my old haunts. It was Saturday night. I was at the Circus Bar in Spring Valley IL. The Circus Bar was the most popular gathering spot for young adults in the area.  It had a nightclub type atmosphere with an oval, black upholstered piano bar with black leather bar chairs. Near the walls there were matching oval black leather booths that could seat 4-6 people. The (Fully Loaded) back bar was full of mirrors as well as the walls. The lighting was done with florescent black light which gave mixed drinks like Martinis and Gin and Tonics a bright translucent appearance. The Circus Bar was class. A great place to take a date, pick up woman or have fun with the boys. It also had a nice basement with a bar and black jack tables.

As I entered the Circus Bar that night-I saw that it was rocking! The place was full of people home from college, soldiers on leave, business and career men and woman out for fun. Someone called my name. It is my friend, Bob. He is standing at the bar with another friend of mine, Louie. There are two exceptional looking young ladies sitting in the bar chairs near them. I walk over to them. They introduce the two young women as their dates and explain they had all been at Western University together. One of the women, the awesome Shirley McClain look alike, was Linda. I was quite taken by her. She was 5ft. 2” about 95 lbs., with short banged dark auburn hair wearing a nice fitting aqua knit sweater and matching short skirt. With a figure meant for sin. She took my breath away.

Linda and I talked a bit. Linda tells me she is from Edelstein, IL. near Peoria and is a first year teacher here at Spring Valley grade school. She also tells me Louie, Bob and some other mutual friends from our area have told her many adventure stories about me. She said they would tell her about this big, wild guy from LaSalle Peru who loves fast cars, to have fun and is not intimidated by anything.  She repeated some of my adventures she had been told and asked if they were really true. I verified they were and probably then some.  

Then I realized my friends that went to Western had told me about an awesome movie star look alike at Western. Now it dawned on me they had been describing this classy and perky creature now sitting in front of me.

They told me not only was she fine and a real lady, she was also an intellectual. The more Linda and I visited, our conversation drifted from the normal chit chat to interesting discussions.  I suddenly realized I had never met anyone quite like her. I was truly smitten.

After a time, Bob, his girlfriend and Linda’s date Louie came over to Linda and I. They suggested we should all go on a triple date this coming Wednesday night. We could go to the LaSalle drive in to see the new movie and afterwards stop at the Eagles Tavern (fun place) near there for some laughs. Of course I would need a date. That would not be a problem. I saw a couple prospects in the bar already that night.

My date coming Wednesday night was a nurse I knew. Linda was with Louie- But I could not take my eyes or thoughts off Linda. Man! She had the most perfect legs I ever saw. The triple date that Wednesday night was a wild and fun night. It would take another page to tell the details of that episode.

About a week later, I am in the “C-Bar. “ (C-Bar was a nick name for the Circus Bar). It is about 6 pm on a week night. I look around and I spy Linda sitting at a booth with several men and women. They were all teachers from the Spring Valley Grade School. There had been a PTA conference after school so all met at the C-Bar after to have a drink. I get a drink at the bar and saunter over to the booth and say hello to Linda. She introduces me to her colleagues. I can tell the man sitting on the outside next to Linda is hot for her. Who wouldn’t be? 

He was the boring local folk hero coach. He reminded me of Mr. Boynton in Our Miss Brooks. I stand and talk with Linda a bit. I offer to get her another drink. She said she would love a cup of coffee. I said I’ll see what I can do. I bribed the bartender to make me a cup of instant. When I went back to the booth I went behind it. I climbed over the back of the booth and forced myself between Linda and Coach Boynton leaving him no room to sit. He had to get up and stand. He knew who I was- and my reputation-so he just took it.

Linda’s eyes went wide. She looked at me, smiled and said laughingly, “You really are everything your friends said you were.” I looked at her and replied, “Linda Lou, there is more-much much more!”

She asks, “How did you know I was a Linda Lou?”  I said I just guessed. Anybody that looked like her had to be! (The popular 60s song Linda Lou by Foghat was one of my favorite songs. I used to tell my best friend Charlie Swanson, that someday I’m going to find me a Linda Lou! The next day I called Charlie and told him I had finally found her. Charlie nicknamed her Patty of course. The lyrics go: “They call my baby Patty-But- her real name-her real name- is Linda Lou!”)

I took Linda home to her apartment that September night in 1964. We have been together ever since. That Christmas I gave her a diamond. June 5th 1965 we got married by a JP. Charlie Swanson and his wife Carol stood up for us. Afterwards the four of us had a wedding dinner. Then Linda Lou and I jumped in my Merc and aimlessly headed north towards Wisconsin. We never made it. My new bride and I honeymooned overnight at the Ma and Pa Kaskia Motel in Mendota, IL.  Fifteen miles was as far as we got. It was still light when we checked in.

Just like Johnny Cash and June Carter-“We got married in a fever-as hot as a pepper sprout!”  Our daughter Jackie was born February 25th, 1966.

To this day, my Linda Lou still tells me I was the most exciting thing she ever met. She said that was the attraction. I kid her and tell Linda, for me it was pure lust!  Also I never met anyone like her. With looks, brains and able to speak her mind and converse intellectually.

Sometimes I like to tease Linda about how I picked her up in a bar.

The Circus Bar is still there. Sadly it has been abandon for many years. Six years ago. On our 40th wedding anniversary we drove to Spring Valley. The Circus Bar sign still is on the building. We looked in the once fancy oblong window on the front. Inside you could see the bar all full of rotted ceiling tiles that had fallen. Then we looked to the left-lo and behold- there was the booth I climbed over to sit next to my Linda Lou over 46 years earlier. We took several pictures.

If was rich-I would buy the place and restore it as a shrine to our true love.

I was 14. I just graduated from 8th. Grade at Washington Grade School in Peru, IL. I was at that voice changing age when some kids trying to act grown up forget themselves and revert back to acting and sounding like a 10 year old. That profile fit me for sure. It was a very confusing age.

My parents who were high society business people had high society close friends and associates in the town of Oglesby across the river from us. They all belonged to the right clubs and organizations including the area country clubs.

These friends across the river had a daughter my age who just graduated from her grade school in her town. Her name was Kathy. Nice looking statuesque blond. Very mature looking for 14. Short curly hair. Very cheerleader and athletic cutesy type. But very sophisticated.

I had met Kathy on several occasions over the years during our family’s get togethers including her parents and cliché.  Kathy and I were not really what you would call friends. Just acquaintances. Same as I, Kathy would start high school at LP (LaSalle Peru) in the fall.

Somehow, Kathy’s and my parents decided it was time for Kathy and me to be more than acquaintances. They decided to become match makers. So they planned a golfing date for just the two of us. I really was not into girls yet, but Kathy was nice to look at. She always seemed pleasant. I was not against the golf date. How bad could it be?

Soon, one fine summer day, the arranged golf date arrived. Our parents delivered us both to the country club. After everyone exchanged greetings and pleasantries our two pair of parents left Kathy and I alone. I was dressed in appropriate golfing togs. Putter pants, golfing shirt and blue canvas laced deck shoes. Kathy was dressed in a white golfing type pleated skirt, white blouse and white spiked golf shoes. Her beautiful honey blond hair in a pony tail—and yes–tied with a white ribbon. Kathy looked very crisp and cute. Much like Sandra Dee posing for one of her movie pro mos.

Our parents and some other of their friends had retired to the cocktail lounge for some bench golfing. Kathy and I got our golf bags and put them in individual golfing hand carts. The type with two wheels and a handle. You had to be 16 to use a motorized golf cart. Club rules. So it was manual hand carts.

Things were going better than I hoped. I was doing ok making an effort to be very polite and adult. Careful not regress back into my childhood mode. After teeing off and playing a couple holes things were even better.We were having fun. Kathy and I were pretty fair golfers do to our constant family exposure to the sport. You do anything enough you are bound to get pretty good at it. We teed off on the third hole. The balls went sailing down this steep hill fairway.

As we started down the hill with our hand carts to get to our balls, for some reason I started to jog and was picking up momentum.

Then it happened! Like a Jeckle turning into Hyde, I had a “time quake” and regressed back into my worst childish mode. I started running in a gallop hard down that hill slapping my sides back and forth with my free hand spouting Varoom! Varoom!  engine noises like Happy Gilmore. The wheels on that hand push type golf cart were squealing wildly. My golf clubs almost rattled out of my golf bag. I was out of control with childish youthful enthusiasm. As I was reaching the bottom of the hill I totally flipped out to childhoodism! I yelled out a hearty “HYO SILVER” at the top of my lungs.

When Kathy reached me I had recovered back to semi adulthood and was so embarrassed I wanted to fall on my five iron. Then I saw the look on her face. It hinted shock and disgust. I knew any future with Kathy was over. This would surely be our last date.

To make things worse, I had four more years to constantly encounter Kathy. We were both in the same high school district. During those four years we would be polite when ever confronted. No flirting or mention of our prior golf date. Every time I saw Kathy I would momentarily seep into gut sick embarrassment remembering that disastrous golf date.

For the next 55 years my skin would crawl with embarrassment when seeing a golf course or especially later, watching the Happy Gilmore reruns with my grandson.

In Oct of 2009 I went to back to my home town for my 50th High School class reunion. I was looking forward to it.  Except for one thing. Seeing Kathy and feeling gut sick embarrassed again. To make it worse, Kathy was hosting the reunion. My worst imaginative terror was: Kathy would get up to the mike and joke about our fatal date 55 years ago. I got to the reunion. Was having a great time. Then, Kathy walked over to formally great me as a class of 59 alumni. My heart skipped beats. Suddenly, I decided to just get it over with! I said,” Kathy, you look great. Hey, do you remember that golf date we had at Deer Park Country Club when we were 14?”

Kathy looked at me like I was nuts. She sweetly retorted, “Jimmy, I don’t remember that or any other time you and I had an actual date.” I then gave her some details, leaving out the galloping “Hyo Silver” part. But all she remarked was, “I’m sorry, but I really do not remember anything like that. But I loved your folks. You mother was such a wonderful lady.” And she smiled sweetly, excused herself and walked off to greet more arriving alumni.

Incredible! For 55 years I had suffered gut wrenching embarrassment for my actions on that fateful day in 1954! And the only witness who was also the victim does not seem to remember it.

Since that class reunion, the golf date incident, thanks to Kathy’s failing memory or perhaps kindness has become a thing of humor to me. Perhaps she had been just as uncomfortable and embarrassed as I. Kathy, just like my mother, was a real wonderful lady.

All my life I would often think of the ravine and my young years I shared with it. When ever I saw a compressor or large shipping crate-or anything relating to the ravine, I would think back about my crate stunt in the ravine when I was 12. And when I would think back of that time in life. I would remember with a warm feeling all the people I loved and cared about still in tact and viable to my existence back then and the experiences in my life at that very precious short time of innocent youth.

As on cue, in 1960 as I grew into adulthood, developers came like a cancer and destroyed that main part of the ravine. They had built yet another new bridge across the Illinois River and put in a new roadway for SR. 51 north. It was four lanes that went right through the ravine’s gorge and creek with exit ramps for 4^th. street which is State Route 6 and Shooting Park Road 1 mile north which is a main local roadway from west of Peru to the East end of LaSalle. To ad to the new Route 51 four lane roadway desecration, housing also started to appear along with new side streets on what was left of the ravine. They built mostly on the ravine’s formally wooded hill sides and upper perimeters.  Of course, as the anti arbor, none caring jerks the developers tend to be hacked down most the trees! Some over 200 to 300 years old. Then had the gall to name the new side streets and neighborhoods after the very trees they destroyed! LOL!! (Very sarcastic laugh)

It was not long after that developer’s nightmarish slaughter of my beloved ravine I left LaSalle Peru to pursue a life I later dedicated to fast cars and racing of which by then I was already addicted to. And 50 years later I still am.

I need to tell this Irony. In 1961, while still living in Peru, I almost got killed in a car accident. It happened while street racing. At 20 years old, I was a wild, irresponsible and reckless youth with an overload of “Panache. The crash was my all my fault.

After drinking an excess of the local Star Model brew earlier that night I was drag racing with my hot 56 Chevy on 4^th. Street which is also a section of SR.6 between Peru and LaSalle. While reveling in my conquest of my friend’s 56 Plymouth Fury who had pulled along side at the last stop light to challenge me,  I forgot about the detour coming up and did not get shut down soon enough. I was still going too fast and failed to negotiate the bypass detour. The detour was a temporary curved road for the Route 6 exit ramp construction of that new damn four lane Rt. 51 road going through my beloved ravine.

How ironic. I was almost killed by the very development that destroyed my precious ravine. Perhaps the sirens of the ravine wanted to keep me forever. (To keep me Forever Young to haunt that sacred place.)  Anyway I did recover from my crash. My cherished immaculate black 56 Chevy 210 sedan with the modified Corvette V8 engine did not!  It took a few more years, but I finally decided racing on the streets and county roads were not so cool anymore. Especially when half drunk on Star Model beer.

Eventually I pulled free of the sirens of the ravine, LaSalle Peru and of my reckless youth. I met and married a great woman. My Linda Lou entered my life in fall of 64.She would become my wife and partner. I was just out of active army duty at that time.1964

Linda was from Edelstein, IL. Near Peoria, IL. Linda had just graduated from Western U.in Macomb, IL.  She was a first year school teacher at Spring Valley Grade School 5 miles west of Peru. We married in June1965 and moved to Utica, IL. A few miles east of LaSalle Peru. Linda then taught grade school in Utica and I worked as a mechanic at the Ford dealership in Peru. I also had a part time Hot Rod/ Auto Repair shop in Utica.

In 1967 we moved to Lacon, IL, where 45 years after I still operate a full time speed shop. A business I started in 1967. That business establishment still serves as Animal Jim Racing headquarters.

In 1969 with Linda’s help I went on to a 42 year professional career of sanctioned drag racing.  Eventually I was to become a well known international drag race personality and match race star “Animal Jim.” I was a six time national drag racing champion, winning over 200 events and garnering countless records and special awards. The “Animal Jim “moniker was inspired by my first serious drag race car. A big 57 Mercury named “The Big Animal”. That and of course the “Panache” of my youth prevailed fueling my aggressive showman driving style that helped to inspire the Animal Jim name.

Today fans and media even refer to me as a legend. The town of Lacon, IL. Where I have lived since 1967 even acknowledged me recently with a sign at Lacon’s city limits. It reads: “Home of Animal Jim Feurer-Six Time Pro Stock and Pro Modified Drag Racing Champion.”

Perhaps my racing career was triggered by rolling down the “Ravine’s Flying Hill” in that crate when I was 12. And perhaps the huge audience and their excited response that resulted with that stunt lent some sub conscious fuel to my future racing exploits.

My racing efforts like most serious racers–also included some crashes. Every time I rolled a race car over, I thought of that crate with me in it bouncing down the Ravine’s Flying Hill path.

I use Rt. 51 through Peru occasionally in my travels. But while writing this story I felt a need to help jog my memory and verify some facts. And-perhaps- for my own nostalgic desire, my wife Linda of 46 years and I went the 40 miles from where we live in Lacon. IL. For a special purpose visit to LaSalle Peru. To take a hard uninterrupted look at the Ravine’s remains.

Even with the advent of the I-39 interstate in 1988 running north just east of LaSalle, which required yet another bridge across my beloved Illinois River. SR 51 Peru, where the ravine’s gorge was, is still a heavy used four lane road.

What I discovered when arriving at the ravine area was: There are still a few remnants of the original ravine left. But only someone native to this area like myself and my age would have any idea what the ravine and creek that ran through it was like and its natural beauty over 50 years ago.

One amazing thing was-we could still see Washington School from SR 51 and it looked like the school’s back lot still bordered the small sloped upper area of trees and wild shrubs. That was all that was left of that magnificent ravine that God had provided for my youth.

The amazing thing is: That small area behind the school is approximately where the flying hill path had started and Terry and John launched me off in my legendary wild crate ride almost 60 years ago.

We drove all around Washington School and the two parks and Peru’s west end residential areas where the ravine had been. Some spots, after where the ravine had turned west were still in tact. Most the land however was developed with no clue of the ravine that used to be. That tour was a heart tugging misty eyed experience for me.

After 70 years on this planet I have recently had a revelation. What helped with my revelation I am about to reveal-Is writing these stories. Also another factor fueling my revelation is, lately there has been lot of nostalgia attention to old drag racers like myself by fans and media bringing up my past with interviews and public appearances etc.

With all that said. Here is my life’s revelation:

“It is great to reminisce about the past and to plan your life for the future. But be careful not to use up all your precious time doing so. Take time to appreciate and enjoy the present. The present is fleeting. Gone in the blink of the eye! Live every day like it is your last!”

This is: A True Life’s Experience. Written by James T. Feurer –Lacon, Illinois

Jim is a Graduate of:
Washington School Grade School-Class of 1954. Peru, Illinois
LaSalle Peru, (LP) High School — Class of 1959—-LaSalle, Illinois
50 years of various special learning classes.
70 years of Life Experiences.

Jim lives in Lacon, IL.
Owns Speed Shop-Animal Jim Racing.
Still Hires out for select Match Races and Personal Appearances.
Jim is also a SFI/NHRA Tech official at Rt. 66 Raceway in Joliet, IL.

Jim is presently a member and a facilitator of OLLI:
Osher Lifelong Learning Institute- Bradley University-Continuing Education- Peoria, Illinois 11-24-2011

Take a look at Jim’s website:www.animaljimracing.com
Inquiries about Match Races and Personal Appearance, contact Jim here: ajr@grics.net

It  was 1952. I was 12 years old and in the seventh grade at Washington Grade School in Peru, Illinois. LaSalle Peru were twin cities with a total population of twenty five Thousand. LP is where I was born and raised.

Across the river was another town of about five thousand called Oglesby. Sometimes the three towns were referred to as the Tri City area.   All three towns plus little Utica,IL., six miles east of LaSalle and the adjoining rural area students qualified to attend the public LP High School and LPO Jr. College in LaSalle.

But as I said earlier, I was still in grade school. I was an average student although the powers within claimed I had almost a genius IQ, (which I seriously question), and should apply myself to my studies more aggressively. I suspect this was a tactic of encouragement. Couple years later in high school the class Adviser told me the same thing.

Physically at 12, I was perhaps one of the taller more mature looking kids my age. I was semi athletic. I loved football and played football on an eight man team we kids in LaSalle Peru put together. Not to brag, I was pretty good. To bad JFL teams were far the distance. Also like my father I was an outdoorsman and loved to hunt, fish and explore. My parents owned a thriving bakery business in downtown LaSalle. My six year older brother Ray (Sonny we all called him) and I did not want for much. Our childhood family life was a storybook model example of the 50s.

The Washington Grade School staff was like an episode of “Our Miss Brooks”. My 7th.grade teacher Mrs. Heller however did not emulate the late handsome Eve Arden who played Connie Brooks in that radio and later TV series. Mrs. Heller was mid 50s, gray hair in a bun, wire rim glasses, thin and about 5 foot two. She always wore boring pastel print full length dresses like an employee of a mental asylum or prison.  Mrs. Heller’s first impression was a stern bitchy old woman. Scare you to death. And no one to mess with. Everyone feared her. Later I was to learn she was a big softy and loved her students. Would do anything for them. She was all bark but no bite. Unless you were really bad. Then she would send you to Mr. Valsino the school principal.” Val” as we kids called him amongst ourselves was a pretty fair guy in a gullible kind of way. He was about 35 years old-starting to chub out on a once hard six foot athlete’s body. “Val”had serious curly black Italian hair and he also wore 40s wire rim glasses. He always wore a suit. Kind of reminded me of pictures I had seen of Elliot Ness.

I had a couple occasions to visit “Val” in the recent past. It was always a trip!

I was always adventuresome. Daring I had been told on occasion. Even as a child. Sometimes it did cause problems. This story is about a time, of daring actions and especially a place-everyone referred to as

“The Ravine!”

The ravine was as the word implies-just that, a huge ravine!  It was covered with oak, maple, willow, cottonwood, elm, white pine, cedar, honey locus and rosebud trees and filled in with scrub brush, prairie grass and briars. A creek ran through the bottom of it.

Actually it was very beautiful-especially during an Illinois fall and a snowy winter.

The ravine kind of separated the twin cities of Peru and LaSalle Illinois. It started from south at the Illinois river and stretched north about a mile up past the rear of Peru’s Washington Grade School playground. The ravine then turned west further into Peru after the school and went several blocks and bordered the southern end of Centennial Park between Fulton and West street and on past West street all the way to the west 2 miles past the end of Peru diminishing into the cornfields.

Behind Washington Grade school the ravine was huge. About two blocks across and steeply sloped on both sides at least 250 feet deep, about a ¼ mile across with a small shallow creek running in the bottom of it that empted into the Illinois River.  In the middle of the west slope joining the school playground which stretched some considerable distance to the ravine edge, there was a well used path going down and then after the creek going up to the LaSalle side. Other than navigating over the shallow creek and under or over a couple strands of an old barbwire fence on the east side edge of the creek, it was a great shortcut on foot to and from the LaSalle and Peru sides.

Needless to say. During school hours-recess, lunch hour, PE etc. the ravine was off limits to us school kids. If you got caught breaking that rule, you got warned once. The second time it was a trip to the office to see “Val” and usually detention. I was a victim of this breach several times.

Amazingly, there was never a fence to isolate the ravine from the school property. At least not from 1949 to 1954 while I attended Washington Grade School. It might have been because lot of town resident people besides school kids constantly used that path to walk to LaSalle and back.

All along that ravine used to be my personal playground. The place I would run to. I was the Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer of the whole contents of that domain. I knew the LP ravine better than anyone. (At least till it got the developers attention several years later)

I had played in it , hunted , mushroomed, trapped, sledded, smoked dried corn silk in buckeye pipes, swam and explored that ravine from side to side and from the Illinois River to it’s end north west of Peru where it diminished into a shallow, weedy draw into the corn fields where I also hunted pheasants and rabbits as a youth.

I had countless adventures in the ravine. It was as sacred to me as is the Illinois River valley, which I also knew a sizable stretch of very well. At 12 years old I thought I was Hawkeye or Jim Bridger.

I sometimes shared my hunting, fishing and exploring adventures with a friend-usually never more than one at a time. Those I allowed to accompany me on my sacred adventures I can count on one hand. Mostly I was a loner.

Alone, no one could shoot you , harm a protected critter, get themselves drowned, get injured, run over by a train , carelessly trample nature, spout stupid ideas, be poorly equipped needing to borrow my stuff constantly or break any of a number of my unwritten Illinois River and Ravine domain rules I had in my 12 year old head.

Plus a huge perk about, fishing, hunting and exploring alone, you could come and go when you wanted and do what you damn well pleased.

I usually only hunted with my dad. He was a master outdoor sportsman. Hunting and fishing was a way of life when he grew up and so it was for me. Dad would never poach, trespass or breach any hunting, fishing or any conservation rules. A wonderful man.

That is were I got my attitude about nature and all it encompassed. He taught me everything about the great outdoors and its balance and caring of it all.

With all that said however, my dad was not part of my ravine experiences. My folks worked that bakery 15 hours a day six days a week. When Sunday came my dad liked to get away. So when dad and I hunted and fished together we did most our hunting and fishing away from LP. Some of the Sunday spots we hunted and fished then were 5 up to 50 miles from LaSalle Peru. We did also go on family summer fishing vacations hundreds of miles away to Minnesota or Wisconsin. Every October Dad also hunted in Canada with a group of business men from LP. I never did get to go do to school.In 1955 Dad came home from Ontario with a trophy 300 pound 12 point buck. That was one of the highlights of his life.

Being the free spirit and adventurer I was, I got myself into trouble several times with those in positions of power at the Peru Washington Grade School.—- It usually involved the ravine.

Some of the incidents involved, my hosting a BB gun war in the ravine during lunch hours, diving off or riding my bicycle lickity split off the wind swept ravine high ledge into huge snow drifts below, sledding down the ravine path, we named the “Flying Hill” during school hours, playing in the creek during recesses or lunch and a few other rule breaking infractions.

But the thing that to this day-57 years later-what still amazes me is the incident I and my beloved ravine and a large crate starred in. That incident really blew “those who must be obeyed” minds. You would have thought the BB Gun Wars would have topped it. Not so.

It all started that 1953 fall term; when the school got a new compressor for the maintenance department.  It came in this wonderful huge crate stuffed with packing material. The huge crate was over five feet long and the sides were about three feet wide and closed on both ends with two by fours. Just like a huge heavy duty orange crate, with rough cut three inch wide by half inch thick slats spaced one inch apart nailed to heavier two by two inch wood reinforcing the four edges where the sides met.

There were several double rows of wire wrapped around the girth of the crate. The wire was stapled to the wood to help hold the crate together and seal it.  Both ends of the wire all met at the same side end forming several latching loops to secure or open one crate side like a door or lid.

The janitors had put the crate and packing materials outside the maintenance door behind the school adjacent the playground that stretched about 200 ft. east to the west edge of the ravine. The crate and packing was waiting to be disposed of.

I looked at that crate and thought, what a waste to destroy that beautiful crate. Then as I fooled with it I realized I would easily fit into it. About then, my 7th. Grade class mates John and Terry, came on the scene. They seemed equally excited about the crate. We three looked at it some. Finally I said, “I got an idea! It would be a blast to roll down the steep ravine “Flying Hill” path in that crate.  If it works out good we could even charge others a fee to do it!  But first I need to try it out myself.”  (I did include others when needed to fulfill my stunts and schemes and a chance to make money.)

John was not a Peru native. His family was mysterious. Appeared a year ago. His dad was always gone on business and mother never seemed to be around. John was tall and thin with a narrow friendly southern hill folk type face and accent. He had brown unruly uncut hair. John was a smart boy. He was soft spoken, very apt and dependable. With a hill folk type survival savvy. John, like myself, had a creative, adventuresome no fear nature and loved the outdoors.

Terry was a Peru native. He came from older parents and a broken marriage. He claimed his mother treated him like crap. Held him responsible for her miserable existence. From   what I saw of his cranky frumpy mother, he was right. She appeared as an unhappy nasty old woman. Terry also had a much older married brother. He was a domineering jerk. As I think back now, I think Terry was an unwelcome accident.

Terry was large and chubby with sandy hair and an oversized elfish freckled face. He was loud, dirty minded, devious and selfish.  A chronic never equipped, always borrowing type.  Terry however, was smart and also a no fear adventurer. Plus Terry’s great sense of humor and creative abilities made up for some of his many less desirable qualities.

No one is perfect.

If I needed help, John and Terry were always up for my adventuresome ideas.

Prior to this rolling the crate down the ravine idea. We three had rolled down hills last summer. We took turns in an empty round barrel we found. That barrel was made from smooth firm but forgiving fiber board with metal ring ends. We found that empty barrel behind my dad’s bakery. Powered milk used to come in those huge fiberboard barrels. The hill we rolled down was part of the smooth manicured lawn of the well kept Peru Centennial Park. That park was over a quarter of a mile from the school situated above where the ravine turned westward.  That last summer we had played with that cardboard barrel till it finally fell apart.

But now, to attempt rolling down that long hard, bumpy steep ravine “Flying Hill” path behind the school would be a new challenge. Not to mention doing it in a heavy rectangular shaped wooden crate.

We had sledded down that path we called the “Flying Hill” when it was icy.  It was so fast, and scary, especially at the bottom where you had to clear the small narrow creek and go under the lower strand of a barb wire fence on the other side. Besides me Terry and John, very few ever tried it. And those few only did it once! I even tried it on a bicycle once. On a bike! Once with a bike was enough even for me!

The worst flying hill sled incident was when our wise ass bully of a classmate Scotty tried it to show off. Scotty freaked toward the bottom dragging his feet slowing down causing the sled not to clear the creek but instead  the sled stuffed  into the far side of the creeks bank slightly  below the far ledge with the sudden impact hurling Scotty head first off the sled. The sled did not make the trip across the creek. But Scotty did. Right into the barbwire. Man was he a mess. So was his sled.

I, who could not stand him, even felt sorry for him, even though he was an obnoxious wise ass jerk. To make matters worse it happened during school recess. There was a big ordeal over it causing detentions and more ravine rules to be mandated and enforced.

Of course I was singled out as the instigator who goaded Scotty to chance such a thing. Could be???  (Chuckle)  When summoned to the office and confronted, I told the principal and Scotty’s parents who were there to pitch their discontent to me and Val, “Hel—-OOPS!  Heck, I sled down that path all the time.” Which was true!

I had even advised Scotty of Flying Hill techniques and survival rules. Apparently he did not pay attention.

Flying Hill sledding safety rules:

Rule 1. Once you shove off–Never slow down!

Rule 2. If in trouble-or freak out, Roll Off The Damn Sled! We three dare devils, John, Terry and I had used that bail out option a few times ourselves. We wrecked lot of sleds and even a bicycle on the Flying Hill. (Also in the winter we also wrecked a few bikes peddling off the high bluff part of the ravine into snow drifts below.)

Rule 3. If you don’t have the sand for sledding down the Flying Hill-don’t try it.

But now, with the appearance of this marvelous crate. Terry, John and I were hoping to embark on a new JJ&T’s amusement ride enterprise. (In later years-there would be more JJT amusement enterprises. Watch for more stories.)

The school bell rang and was time for morning class. We hoped the crate would still be there at lunchtime.

I had a hard time concentrating on my class that morning. Washington Grade School back in 1953 held 4^th. Through 8^th. Grade. Your grade level was held in one classroom.

Other than PE and Music for all your subjects. Junior high had yet to contaminate the pure grade school curriculum in La Salle Peru, Illinois.

When you finished 8^th. Grade, you graduated from grade school –not Junior High.  You then went on to be a freshman in High School. At LP high School or St. Bede Academy.

We had a 15 minute recess mid morning. That late October morning it was cold and nasty. Mother Nature was spitting some cold rain. Everyone went to the gym for recess. Except Terry, John and I. We snuck out to see if the crate and the packing materials were still there. It was all still in tact! Since no one was out on the play ground for recess but us three, we made a sudden decision to stuff the packing back into the crate and drag it to the ravine. We hid it just down the slope ledge a bit to insure it would not be seen and be hauled off and destroyed.

As for the crate becoming missing from the back of the school-We reasoned the janitors would think someone came by, saw the crate and took it for wood or some other use. Perhaps one of the school staff or a scrap dealer. There was a scrap man who frequently picked up unwanted items to relieve the school of a disposal nuisance. If anything, the crate and its packing being removed would be welcomed by the not so ambitious   janitors.

We had an eight man team football game scheduled after school that day. Our team was named the “Cavaliers” my friends and I had organized. We were to play an east side LaSalle team called the “Eastside Animals” We played our football games in Parks and vacant lots.

Because of our football game, we could not try the “crate roll” after school that day. So I had high hopes of trying the ravine roll stunt with the crate during the early part of lunch hour, before the playground monitors came on duty. We were all three anxious to perform this stunt to see if selling trips in it to other kids was a viable possibility. (In my heart-I think all I just wanted was to experience the stunt!)

Lunchtime finally came. Terry, John and I went to our lockers to get our jackets, lucky I had worn my heavy one. I also got my football helmet from my locker. (Helmets were required for the 8 man football teams. Any pads, if you had them was a bonus. No spiked shoes allowed however!)

The three of us went to the ravine and saw the crate had not been bothered. We dragged it up to the top edge of the Flying Hill Path. We undid the wire tabs and opened the one side. Like a coffin. We had to work quick. By now the weather had turned warmer and the sun came out. It had brought many of our classmates outside. The teachers on play ground duty would be out very soon.  I already had my heavy jacket on. Then I strapped my football helmet on. We had laid the packing in the crate to wrap me with and help cushion me on my 250 ft. downhill bouncing journey in the crate.

I knew it would be a rough ride rolling and bouncing that heavy box shaped crate with my 130 pound body in it down that still slimy, wet from morning dew, hardened dirt path.

By the time I was climbing in the crate, like a test pilot, quite a crowd of school mates started to gather near us. They knew we were up to something wild. (We always were)  I feared the crowd would alert the playground duty teachers.

My fears were realized. One of the teachers came out the door saw the crowd of kids at the edge of the ravine and knew we were up to no good. She sent one of the students standing near the school door to fetch Mr. Valsino the principal

Terry and John quickly strapped me in the crate securing the wire tabs. There was just enough space between the slats for me access the wire tabs with my fingers for release when done. We had checked that out earlier. John and Terry scooted me in the crate sideways to the very edge of the Ravine’s Flying Hill path. I was ready! John and Terry gave me a huge shove off the edge of the Flying Hill Path.

Just as we had “Push Off” I heard Mr. Valsino’s voice blaring over a blow horn. He was yelling Stop! Stop! What are you doing! The kids were cheering and the playground duty teacher and several other woman and men teachers including our 7^th. grade teacher Mrs. Heller were screaming  and the both  the boy’s and girl’s PE teachers who were also coaches came on the scene by then and even the “not so ambitious” two school janitors were also yelling at us.!

It was too late! My partners in the JJT Wild Rides program has gave me a good shove and I was off! Man what a ride. The first couple bounces were fun-but as I picked up momentum the ride got to be quite uncomfortable. I could not believe how bad I was bouncing around even with all that packing around me. The crate would hit bumps, lumps and dips in the hard slimy slick path surface caused by the earlier rain. The crate and I would even go air born, spinning and come crashing down in a rolling accelerated spin.  With the g forces flinging me one way and then the other. I was sure glad I had my helmet and my heavy jacket on. Full football game pads would have been welcome.

During the last leg of the trip, it was— like being on a bad carnival ride you suddenly hate and cannot wait for it to stop. By the end of my violent bouncing ride, I was more than ready for my crate ride to come to a halt. Which it finally did! The crate and I had gained such speed and force the crate and I cleared the creek in a huge last flipping roll and took out the old barbwire fence section on the far side. The crate and I ended up across the creek about 15 feet up the far LaSalle side of the path.  BUT! Wow! I had done it. I was a little banged up but nothing worse than a couple hard late hits in a football game. This was my greatest stunt and experience of all time!

The most amazing thing was –the crate landed so I could get out. We had worried about that earlier and made a pact that John and or Terry would come get me out if I ended up trapped with the part of the crate that opened facing down and I could not get out. The opening part of the crate ended facing away from the crowd that had gathered along the top of the ravine’s edge. I could hear the kids cheering loudly and the blow horn’s blaring and getting closer. Mr. Valsino was yelling over the horn while negotiating down the slick flying hill surface if I was alright?

I reached through the slats and undid the wire tabbed latches, pushed down the side and rolled out with packing all around me. I thrashed myself free of the packing and avoiding the strands of barbwire askew on and near the crate , I jumped out ,whipped off my helmet, turned toward my spectators with helmet in hand jammed both arms in the air in a victory stance like a circus performer that just mastered a death defying stunt.. The kids were now cheering wildly.

About then–The principal and one of the younger janitors (who was a pain in the ass. 12 years later, in basic training I would experience an army corporal like him) were over half way down the path. When I had jumped up with my arms in the air, my sudden appearance startled Mr. Valsino so much he stopped short, skidded on the slick, slimy hard muddy path falling and bouncing on his butt sliding down the path uncontrollably with the blow horn suspended alone in mid air. The pain in the ass janitor behind him could not stop. He skidded and fell over Mr. Valsino, ass over appetite. Both of them sliding and tumbling down uncontrollably the last 75 feet of the Ravine’s Flying Hill path to the creek and –“Splash Down!”  Right into two feet of water.

Hell they had just upstaged my act!!  But it was beautiful! What a climax!

The kids and even the teachers at the top of the ravine -which now consisted of the whole school and even some neighbors, were howling with laughter. The whole place was up for grabs!

Later that afternoon. No one was laughing anymore. The real climax to our stunt was to just begin.  At least were where John, Terry and I were. The Principal’s Office!

Luckily for Mr. Valsino, he lived close to the school. He had gone home and changed his wet and muddy clothes and cleaned up.

Joining us in the office besides Mr. Valsino was our 7^th. grade teacher Mrs. Heller, the play ground duty teachers, PE teachers, school nurse who also served as district shrink, the two not so ambitious janitors, the nerdy school board president- and worst of all-the school district superintendent! The very tall and lanky 60 year old Mr. Platt! Who always looked like a pissed off Abe Lincoln.

The one good thing was, our parents had not been invited to this spontaneous post “Crate Rolling Stunt” discipline party. At least not yet. Apparently the powers at hand wanted our story without our parents present intimidating us.

The story they heard from me seemed to blow their minds.  I had been trying to explain it to them over and over. Even at the exhibition site right after everyone recovered from laughter at the crate rolling and mud sliding principal and janitor act no one seemed to get it. Now here in the Principle’s office my version of what happened still seemed not to register. The superintendent, principal, teachers, janitors and nurse all assumed Terry and John strapped me in the crate and rolled me down that hill against my will as a prank.

Finally I got huffy and yelled, “PLEASE! PLEASE!  LISTEN! “I asked John and Terry to help me to roll down the Flying Hill in that crate. Because I wanted to do it! It was my idea! Can’t you people understand that?”

No one could understand why anybody would do that. The Superintendent we nicknamed “Abe” amongst the students quieted everyone down. Then looked me in the eye and said, “Let me get this straight. You rolled down the hill in that crate on purpose-because you wanted to? Why would anyone want to do that?”

I answered honestly, “Who wouldn’t?! It was a great experience.”

Everyone gasped and looked at me like I was nuts. I’m sure our school nurse-“Nurse Ratchet” who also served as the lay psychology expert thought I needed serious therapy. Val was chewing the end off a pencil and shaking his curly head.

About then the coach who also was my PE teacher came to my aid. He revealed to the group what an adventuresome and high spirited kid I was. And added I was sometimes reckless about my own safety. Coach gave an example. Of how in track practice I would dive head first over the high jump bar and after clearing the bar I would end with a tumbling summersault to my feet. With my daring unconventional method I could go higher than anyone in the school. (In the very near future my diving method in the high jump was outlawed.)

I still think the coach was the only one who understood. I think the rest of the staff just thought I was a loose cannon screw ball who needed professional metal help. Especially the psycho zealot “Nurse Ratchet” and old crotchety redneck Abe.

Needless to say we all three, John Terry and I got some serious detention and that nice crate was disposed of.  Perhaps it was best. I had already determined the stunt was a little too daring to sell rides in it to our classmates.

Although, with a few modifications, I would liked to have tried it myself again. And probably would have if I knew where they took that darn crate!

Little did I know my crate stunt would become a Washington School legend for years to come.

Stay tuned for Part 2…

You would be amazed how many times I have told a mistaken person or persons that fact. I would tell them, “No, I am Animal Jim Feurer (pronounced “foyer”), not Jungle Jim Liberman.”

I always try not to embarrass anyone over this Jungle and Animal Jim confusion, however, it does cause some uncomfortable moments especially when I have to inform the mistaken people that Jungle Jim died in 1977 in a tragic traffic accident in his home town in Pennsylvania.

It’s now been 33 years and I just want to say, “Where the hell have you been, people!!!”

Then, if it’s needed, which is more times than not, I would tell the person or persons the difference between Animal Jim and Jungle Jim’s racing careers and the history of how we got our nicknames. These days I can refer to our websites, but when time permits and there are no interruptions, here is how I explain to them:

“Jungle Jim Liberman was a famous legendary Funny Car racer in the ‘70s who was known for his tremendous showmanship and popularity. Jungle Jim was in huge demand for exhibition match races and did it for a living. He is a legend I admire.”

Then I go on:

“There are several stories as to how the “Jungle Jim” name evolved. One theory I read in an article a few years ago was that early in his career, Jungle Jim got his nickname when an announcer at an event in California associated Jim Liberman going through the field of his Funny Car competition like the cartoon character “Jungle Jim” rapidly swinging on vines through the jungle.”

“Jim picked up on that analogy and his funny cars from then on had the Jungle Jim cartoon character swinging on a vine and a huge Jungle Jim name emblazoned above it. Then I have read that “Jungle” simply thought it up as a catchy name.”

“However it evolved, Jim Liberman’s Funny Cars all had the name Jungle Jim and sometimes with a Jungle Jim cartoon character swinging on a vine emblazoned on the sides.”

Then I pause and go on:

“My nickname, “Animal Jim” Feurer (foyer) has nothing to do with the Jungle Jim name in any way. Nor was it inspired by the Jungle Jim name.”

“My nickname was given to me because of my first serious drag car that I started racing at Oswego, Illinois in 1969. The car was a big, orange 1957 wheel-standing Mercury Monterey named “The Big Animal”. After racing that local sportsman door slammer car a season, media, fans and friends started calling me “Animal Jim”. Simple as that!”

“I was not even aware there was a “Jungle Jim” during that period of my racing. I was too busy concentrating on my local sportsman racing and did not keep up with big time drag racing. It was not easy to keep abreast of national drag racing back then. There was very little national drag race news back in 1969.”

I go on:

“In 1976 when I started racing National Pro Stock with my little Ford Pinto, I could not very well call that little car “The Big Animal” or “The Big Animal 2”. And “Little Animal” just sounded too weak and demeaning.” Especially when me the driver, Jim Feurer, is over six feet tall and 200 pounds.

“So since everyone was calling me “ANIMAL JIM” by then, I had “Animal Jim Feurer” painted in huge letters on the doors of my orange 1972 Ford Pinto Pro Stock Car. After that, all my cars for the next 35 years in Pro Stock and then in Pro Modified had “Animal Jim” logo on them. In fact, my speed shop business in Lacon, IL. is called Animal Jim Racing and has been for decades.”

Then to help clarify the subject, I add firmly:

“I never did race anything on a drag strip but door slammers. I never even ever sat in a Funny Car.”

Then I say, “Do you understand what I have just told you???”

Some do, but I can tell some people are still in a haze as to what I have disclosed. It is a lot to grasp at one time.

All the above is what I try to explain to the mistaken folks. It is not always possible.

By 1976, I was aware of Funny Car racer “Jungle Jim”, but never gave a thought that our names kind of mimicked each others. When I raced as a professional, I just concentrated on my own program. Back then, when I would participate at AHRA and UDRA national events and someone asked me later about what happened in Top Fuel or Funny Car, I wouldn’t know. But I could disclose my class – Pro Stock, in rhyme and verse.

I do want to add that today, I have the greatest admiration for Jungle Jim and his legend. He was drag racing’s show business icon. We need him badly today! And a Jungle Pam, also!

When Jungle Jim got killed, little did I know it would cause some turmoil in my own life. The irony is that I did not even have an opportunity to know Jim Liberman personally. I never had a reason to. Wish I had. I think we would have hit it off!

I watched him race a few times, but our paths never crossed. But amazingly, when Jim got killed, many fans and even friends thought it was me that got killed. Needless to say, these folks that mixed us up (and still do) were only casual drag fans that lived in some delusional-type drag racing fan fog or they would have known Jim was killed in 1977.

The first incident I experienced caused by Jungle’s demise came only days after his death. It was when I showed up for a make up race at one of Don Garlit’s PRO Events at Great Lakes Dragway in 1977. It just so happened that Jungle Jim and I had both qualified for that event two weeks prior.

Jungle qualified in Funny Car and me, Animal Jim, qualified in Pro Stock with my trusty Pinto. The eliminations were rained out just as we all got in staging so the event was postponed for two weeks.

The very next weekend after that PRO rainout at Great Lakes, I was at Ontario, California working with an Indy Car support team. (Yes I was also involved with Indy Cars for 25 years, in fact!) Plus I also had a performance automotive shop in Lacon, IL.

Back then, I always burned the candle at both ends and some people criticized me for it. “But, ah, my friends and, oh, my foes. It gives off a lovely light!” (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

Anyway, I got back from Ontario the following week just in time to get to the PRO make-up eliminations at Great Lakes Dragaway in Union Grove, Wisconsin.

I arrived the night before the make-up race at the little ma and pa motel that I always stayed at when racing at Great Lakes. It was only a couple miles from the drag strip. As my crew chief Rick Davis and I pulled our rig into the motel parking lot, the man and woman who the owned the place and had become my friends over the last couple years, came running out, white as sheets, and screaming, “We just heard on the radio you were dead!”

I thought they were joking and I said, “Well here I am! Alive and kicking!”

Needless to say it was Jungle Jim that was dead – not “Animal Jim”. Having been in California for a week, I was in my Indy Car loop and out of the drag news loop and had not heard that the great Jungle Jim was gone forever – sadly killed in a traffic accident in his home town in Pennsylvania.

Several times during the next few years, I would pull into a track somewhere and someone would be confused as to my mortality and identity. I would then do my best to explain.

One incident I recall clearly happened that next spring at a UDRA race at Wisconsin International Raceway near Appleton, Wisconsin. I had appeared there several times in Pro Stock with the UDRA in the past couple years and had established a local Wisconsin fan base. As my crew chief Rick Davis and I were making our way to the pit area with the race rig, several little kids were running alongside the truck by my open door window yelling to me, “Animal Jim! We heard you was dead!”

In my best John Wayne impression, I retorted, “Not Hardly!”

Here is major incident that affected me due to Jungle Jim’s untimely death that same year. One Sunday, some racer from Peoria, Illinois. (Peoria is near Lacon, Il. where I live.) showed up at Oswego Dragway which is about 100 miles away from Lacon. Oswego was the track where I got my start in 1969 as a local sportsman drag racer. I had become an Oswego icon over the next several years and then went off to be a national Pro Stock racer. But Oswego was my home track and I had made many fans and friends there.

Anyway, this guy from Peoria, who raced a Maverick and called himself “The Mad Scotsman” told the Oswego track manager, Bub Thurlby, who was a friend of mine, that Animal Jim Feurer had gotten killed in an auto accident. So the Oswego media staff announced the sad news over the Oswego track PA and even had a moment of prayer for me!

Then the track manager and his wife, as I said earlier who were my friends, decided to call my home and give their condolences to my wife Linda.

Linda Lou, the love of my life, answered that phone call and was floored at what Bub had to say. Linda told them there is a big mistake and that I was very much alive. Bub said he had just heard the news from some racer from Peoria that came to Oswego to race that I had recently been killed in a traffic accident.

Thank God I was home that Sunday to verify I was ok to my family! I had a bad race car crash with my ‘71 Comet at Oswego in 1975 and we all had finally recovered from that trauma. If I would not have been home when that call came it would have freaked out my whole family.

Finally, Linda said to Bub, “Would you like to talk to him? Jim is right outside the door here, working on Jackie’s bicycle.”

Our daughter, Jackie, was only 10 years old at that time and she was in the chase truck with my crew chief Rick Davis and saw me crash in 1975.

Then I came into the house, took the phone and convinced Bub I was alive and kicking. I think Bub and his wife started to cry. In fact we all did. For joy I guess, glad that the Mad Scotsman was misinformed. Animal Jim was ok!

Bub then announced over the PA that he had great news. There had been a terrible mistake about my well being. That he had just spoke with me and then he patched me into the PA system at Oswego Dragway and with tears in my eyes, I thanked all the folks for their concern and assured them that I was alive and well.

One of my favorite and humorous of myriad mistaken Jungle/Animal identity incidents happened several years ago. 1994 I believe – I was booked into the Fun Ford Event at Norwalk, Oh. Dragway. I was featured to match race legend Wayne Torkelson in his blown ‘55 Thunderbird Pro Mod. At that time I had my fabulous record-holding Haas Super Coupe Wunder Bird Pro Mod.

We are at the trailer ready and waiting to go up for the first segment of the Fun Ford Feature Show and Al Schmitt, my crew chief, is putting the final touches on our fabulous Wunder Bird Pro Mod. My wife, partner and also my best friend , Linda Lou Feurer, is at the back door of our 46 foot trailer selling Animal Jim T-shirts like a carnival hawker and handing out AJ Hero Cards. I am at the side door up front, talking to fans and friends and signing shirts Linda has sold, signing hero cards Linda has given out and even signing human body parts. In fact, some of those parts look pretty fine! LOL! Oops! Sorry, Linda.

Suddenly this wiry little middle-aged guy appears in front of me like a stand-up comedian. He looks and acts just like “Huggy Bear” from the old Starsky and Hutch TV show. He looks at the pictures on my door and has one of my hero cards in his hand and as I’m signing it for him, he says to me, “Man Yooose is “Jungle Jim” I saw you years ago when I was a kid!” And goes on to describe Jungle Jim’s Funny Cars and places I had yet to race at.

I try to correct him, stating that I am not Jungle Jim the Funny Car racer, I am Animal Jim the Pro Stock and Pro Modified Racer, but Huggy Bear refuses to understand that JJ and AJ are different people. So then I try to explain Jungle Jim was a Funny Car racer and I, Animal Jim, raced Pro Stock and then Pro Modifieds. I also TRY to explain the history of our nicknames. I also break the news to him that Jungle Jim, who I’m sure Huggy saw when he was a kid, but because Huggy failed to keep up with drag racing news in the last 20 years — That Jungle Jim got killed in a traffic accident in Sept. of 1977.

Anyway, he’s still not buying this and refuses to listen to me! And he finally responds with, “Yooose is putting me on. I knows yooose is Jungle Jim who I saw in the ‘70s!”

Then he looks down through the trailer and spied Linda. “There!” Huggy says, “There is the proof! I knows that is Jungle Pam down there behind the trailer selling shirts!”

So there he sees my little Linda Lou, a cute, 5 ft., 95 pound Home Ec. school teacher, but for some reason, Huggy perceives Linda Lou looks like Pam Hardy – Pam Hardy – Wow! Jungle Jim’s woman – the famous Jungle Pam who was a tall statuesque, voluptuous, dark-haired beauty who was usually scantily dressed and looking so sexually awesome that a devoted holy man would trash all his convictions and leave home for.

My little Linda Lou, cute as a bug, was always dressed conservatively in tastefully fitting jeans, an AJ over-size t-shirt with a normal bra!

In their prime, which Huggy was relating to in his warped mind, Linda Lou and Pam Hardy looked about as much alike as, well, here is a male analogy; “As a cute little jockey would compare to Hulk Hogan in heat!” LOL!

With this new Jungle Pam revelation- that Huggy thinks Linda is Jungle Pam-I finally gave up. I needed to get rid of this crazy guy. I still had a line of fans waiting on me. So I passed Huggy on to my poor unsuspecting little Linda Lou. And told Huggy Bear, “Your right. It is Pam, go see her back there, buy a shirt and have her autograph it.”

Huggy goes around to the back of the trailer and waited his turn, then talked to Linda for quite some time. I go back to signing autographs for more fans, but keeping a sharp eye on Huggy back there with my wife. Finally, he does buy a shirt and Linda does sign it and then Huggy takes his treasured shirt and hero card and disappears into the crowd. I never saw him again. Thank the Lord and Linda.

To this day-I don’t know the conversation that transpired between Huggy and Linda Lou. What ever she said-seemed to pacify him.

Linda always has a way of dealing with situations like that. But she is smarter than me. That and pure lust is why I married her! LOL!

Later I asked Linda how she signed his shirt. She said, “Love From Jungle Linda”. LOL!!

Even today, the Jungle Jim and Animal Jim name still gets people confused. I still have customers write me checks that are made out to Jungle Jim and sometimes I even get introduced as Jungle Jim. Anytime I appear somewhere, a fan or two will call me Jungle Jim.

It just tells me just how popular Jungle Jim was and still is. His memory and legend will live on forever. I guess I have involuntarily become part of the care taking of Jungle Jim’s legend!

It was a week before Labor Day 1989. I was racing in the wild UDRA Outlaw Pro Stock Circuit and had just capped my second World Championship in a row. By this time, I had raced 20 years. Fifteen as a national touring professional. Won over 100 races and four championships. I was getting lot of Ink and TV time. Sponsor proposals were actually coming to me.

One was Rick Jones. The 29 year old owner of RJ Race Cars. He offered to build me a much needed new chassis as an associate sponsorship for the 90 & 91 seasons. The car would be a prototype carbon fiber replica of the new 90 Ford Probe to race in IHRA’s new up and coming class Pro Modified. A was spin off from Outlaw Pro Stock. Pro Mod would be a wild new class yours truly helped establish . Jones and I shook on the agreement.

Rick Jones and I had made arrangements to go to the Sema Show in Vegas in Nov. to announce our new alliance, renew and find more sponsors. Sema is the largest automotive & racing trade show in the world.

Suddenly we realized -the NHRA Indy National are on Labor Day weekend. The most prestige’s drag racing event of the year. I did not race NHRA but the Indy Nats.midway will be packed with manufactures and national media people by the scores. Going to Indy for a couple days to network and announce our RJ & AJ plans would give us a huge jumpstart before Sema.

One slight problem. To get a room at Indy at this late date, would be like trying to get a date with Madonna.

Our friend and Pro Stock racer Gary Stuart came to the rescue. Gary tells us of a Motel in South Indy on Shadeland Ave. called of course-The Shadeland Motel. Gary says it is out of the loop of race fans and always has rooms. So I called and booked us a room with two double beds for Sat. night.

Labor Day weekend –Three of us-my new sponsor Rick Jones and his top fabricator Charlie Hoots (Hoots is a story himself. Hoots is the same age as RJ. -29. Hoots is also a burnt out rock band singer and lead guitar player who recently left his band to return to his original vocation as a fabricator, trying to rehabilitate himself from drugs, alcohol and other vices.) And of course me-Animal Jim the Prima Dona race driver-A serious hard nose ,bad to the bone, 48 year old racing veteran. I was 48-but still Young at Heart.

We three arrive at the Indy Nationals. Our promotion idea goes great. We attain our goals and then some. In fact our appearance becomes Animal Jim Mania. For the first time-the realization sets in that I have become a nationwide drag race celebrity.

It was kind of Surreal. In fact 20 years later it still is.

Finally, the first day at the track is over. We leave Raceway Park in Clermont and head down I-65. We finally find the Shadeland Ave. exit.

It turns out the Shadeland motel is near the abandoned Chrysler Plant in the sleaziest part of Indy.Populated mostly with winos and homeless people. Featured are Strip Joints, Gay Bars, etc. I suddenly notice Hoots and Rick light up to the notion of naked woman.

We check in at the Shadelande Motel office. It looks pretty grim! But-How bad can the place be?

By now Hoots is so excited about the strip joints he is coming unglued. I feared for his rehab efforts! The Boys-Hoots and Rick are so eager for lap dances and drinking we bypass going to the room and go directly to the vice filled joints. I had outgrown those tendencies years before-but I did not want to cramp my new benefactor’s desires. The sacrifices a racer has to make! In the course of the evening we all drank too much. In my case-I think it was to escape. I will admit-I did like the sauce a little too much at that time. But the pressure of my racing career back then was very intense.

The evening of reckless nudity and drinking is finally done. The joint hopping was as bad or worse than I expected-but I endured. Now it is time for the Shadeland Motel experience,

We go to our room and see it as it for the first time. Even half hammerd-reallity sets in. This place is really bad. The room was rundown, full of roaches, and so dirty-we slept fully clothed on top the covers-with the lights on and with a chair propped under the door knob. All night you could hear roaches and mice munching! Unless the screaming from the room next door and carrying on in parking lot blocked it out. Finally-I need the bathroom. I go to the can. I hear water running but nothing is on. Then I feel wetness on my bare legs. There is a fine spray from the fixture below the sink spraying on my legs. I kid you not-I have traveled to races all over the US and even some foreign counties to for over 40 years. This had to be the worst place I ever stayed! No wonder this place always had vacancies!

To this day. –Whenever traveling South on I-65 through Indy and pass the Shadeland Ave.exit , I recall that experience and chuckle. Actually I wish it was 1990 again. A 20 year Time Quake would be most welcome!

In the following 1990 season. The RJ Probe would become the first ever Ford Pro Modified car to break 200mph and clock 6 sec. et’s in quarter mile drag racing. That same year we also won many races, set many other records and I was awarded Driver Of The Year. The topper was: We won a 3rd. in a row World Championship. 1990 really put us on Broadway.

Years later. Rick Jones would win the Car Craft Chassis Builder Of The Year award several times. Presently-20 years after the Shadeland experience – RJ Race Cars is a international multi-million dollar business still building cars for the big names in drag racing.

Rick’s 21 year old son – Rickie Jones is a top contender in NHRA Pro Stock driving a RJ car of course. Now, Rick Jones goes to the events with a $300,000 Toter Home and Double Stacker Trailer. No more Shadeland Motels for RJ or me for that matter!

(My stories will not be in any special order. I will write them at random as memory serves me) Rapture: Ecstacy. Overwhelmed or carried away in an almost trance by great joy or strong emotion. By the summer of 1987, the Outlaw Pro Stock concept a few of us started was coming into vogue in a big way. Match race proposals were coming from everywhere. Fans everywhere wanted to see these crazy Nitrous and Blown 200 mph Door Slammers. One such event in Milan (Michigan) Dragway had booked “Wild Bill” Kuhlmann vs. (me) “Animal Jim” for the 1987 4th of July match race feature. I had my heart set on beating Bill and running 200 plus while doing it. On the first run after several minutes of both the US National anthem and the Canadian version plus much pageantry and hoopla, Bill and I staged great side by side 600 ft. burnouts as always. We then staged up with nitrous purging like a steam engine. We left some & I made a perfect hard run and had Outlaw Bill covered. As I pondered the victory and the essence of what I was sure was a 200 mph run, I suddenly realized I had not released my chute (I still only had one chute on the Zephyr at that time) As veteran as I was -I got caught up in the moment with a late chute on a knowingly short shutdown track and ended up in the sand trap. I was buried up to my doors and could not open them. Bill Kuhlmann was first to show up and dug the sand from around the Merc’s driver’s door and got me out. Laughingly, Bill asked, “What the hell happened? I told this track owner we were a class act!” That is when I coined the phrase –”BIG END RAPTURE!” Next time out I had two chutes in case “Rapture” struck me again!