Uncle Bert Gronseth

History

Uncle Bert’s Stories
 by Uncle Bert Gronseth

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF DRAG RACING

One of the very most enjoyable things to me about professional drag racing is that the fan (drag squirrel) with the purchase of a “pit pass” is entitled to rub elbows with the participant of the meet.  This is unique in professional sport.  One cannot get in the huddle of an NFL quarterback, kneel in the on deck circle with your favorite major league batter, hand your favorite reliever his mitt or warm-up ball.  Perish the thought were you to talk to a professional tennis player. PGA Pros are close, but not this close, you surely cannot ask which club they are selecting.

While working on the clutch of our funny car I was approached by a young man in MOPAR clothing.  He was a Chrysler Plymouth mechanic. I suspect he knew much of even professional drag racing was apt to be weekend racing. The longing in his eyes as he studied the car and my involvement with it let me suspect he would like to know more. He braved the situation and asked a question of me.


“What do you do for a living?”

I pondered the question. Our owner is a college graduate in business, our driver is a high school dropout, I have worked as a psychologist, but that was a few years ago. No fewer than half my days that year had been on the road with the race car. What do I do for a living?
“This.”

Who signed Jim’s license? 

No, I was not at every run of our fuel funny car, it just seemed that way. I was present at several significant occurrences. We struggled for several years before we were able to fulfill what appeared to be some sort of destiny. 

The fuel funny car is a very high performance racing vehicle. In order to secure the safety of the sport, the National Hot Rod Association (NHRA) has guidelines for obtaining a competition license. A track could lose its race sanctions were they to avoid these procedures. At the time, a minimum of six practice runs were needed. This may not seem a lot but even at the time it was expensive. With no broken parts, the disposable costs for this were at least three thousand dollars.

Oversight of these runs were attested to by two recognized, licensed drivers. Now I was to be present at the licensing of all the drivers of our racing operation. One’s first is one we often remember. We were at a small track somewhere in northern New Jersey: Island Dragway. That day there was a match between two of the living legends of the sport. Between them they held most of the firsts of the sport. Were you to name even today five of the best known drag racers ever, you could not miss one of the names and likely both would be included. I was impressed at the time, still am today. To realize that the first driver of our operation was certified by,
“Big Daddy” Don Garlits and “T.V. Tommy” Ivo.

Go to the end of the guardrail and turn left.

One of the reasons I am glad we were drag racing was the abysmal sense of direction of our driver, George. There are many stories about the difficulties this presented on the road between tracks. I made no secret of my appreciation for the line of sight direction needed to get our car to the finish line. 

Were we road racing we would lose the car for sure, and jibes to this extent were common. I was standing with George and some other people. This day for some reason, likely used tires, the car had veered to the right side of the track on at least two passes.  I do not usually comment on obvious serious situations. I was saying something about George’s lack of navigational aptitude. One of the passes was good.
“Glad you found the finish line,” I said.

George had a way to make light of potential danger as well as a sense of humor about himself.
“It was easy, I just went to the guardrail and turned left.” 

On My Hat There was a Pin -- “WORLD’S GREATEST Crew Chief”

Personally I have spent just a little longer than a decade associated rather closely with a professional drag racing operation. This did not occur until I was past my thirty-fifth birthday.  I have never driven the race car. Just why is another story. For the first few times at the track I was not much more than a spectator. I was later to find Ron did not have any idea how to use help. Then Ron left, Jim needed and appreciated help. I was there. The relationship grew, out of desperation at times then out of mutual respect and love. I developed a great deal of skill with respect to the function of the clutch. In general I did not see out the performance of the operation was dependent on me. There was a sense of everything is better when Bert is here. For whatever the reasons I learned to accept the position. A pin on my hat said, “World’s Greatest -- Crew Chief.” From the time it was given to me I wore it without apology. The pin was not all that obvious. One needed to be close enough to comfortably talk with me for it to be seen.
“Where did you get that pin?”
These inquirers were more than satisfied with my response.
“It was given to me.”

Best Appearing Crew

An old felt hat we found became one of the recognizable features around our pit. I had repaired the sweatband and re-blocked it to fit. By the time I stopped wearing it the color had darkened considerably. It was mostly just one big grease spot.

At the track I refused to wear any of the t-shirts advertising anything. Jim had through some stroke of foresight bought each of us several shirts with WOMBAT Racing in small letters on them. The very nice thing about this was their color: navy or black showed none of the soil.
There were two occasions where my outfits caused considerable attention. We were at a national event in Gainesville, Florida. The car had presented us considerable problems that week.  On one of a very few occasions it was my task to lay underneath the car to work on the bottom end of the motor. I have said over the years were I working underneath the car we were in trouble. The clutch had slipped tremendously, making an enormous amount of clutch dust. I looked like the kid who empties the pencil sharpener at school and then rolled in the residue. Much of the work was done in line, ready to run. My change of clothes was at the trailer. My accustomed hat and boots were still a part of my attire. The Florida weather had enticed me to wear a sleeveless “bad guy” t-shirt and cutoff jeans. Maybe I did look shabby. Had I been buxom rather than bearded we probably would have been complimented. 

The other occasion happened at a track in Canada later that same year. Carol and I had just fashioned red “dress” shirts with multi-color satin stripes, sponsor patches, individual names, and the embroidered character of a wombat on the back. They looked as nice as any commercial shirts at the track. Our efforts were rewarded when even though ‘most improved’ may have been in order. We received recognition as Best Appearing Crew.

BUD, our first major sponsor

Jim and I were like family to each other. He had been struggling to make a go at professional drag racing for over ten years. He had afforded the lion’s share of the money, much of the skill, yet we had a way of working together in what we did. Tom was our driver now. He was not as much fun as George. I am not sure if he added any more to our operation, but the operation was performing well now.

I was not there every day as I had been during the first five years. From my job as a psychologist at a state psychiatric center I escaped weekends to assist still as a crew chief. Jim was experiencing serious back problems. He was actually hospitalized at the time. The call from him did not surprise me. He often called to keep in touch.

The reason for the call was a pleasant surprise. Even though we had established ourselves as a serious, competitive race program, we had not attracted any sponsorship money. To be competitive at the torrid pace the sport had generated, the term for the need was, “cubic dollars.”
On the other side of town, actually the same towns or tracks, there was another racing operation. Really there were many but only this one is part of this story. We had interaction with this operation before. We had bought their old race-car trailer. I have another story to tell about that, also. Chance would have it that the body, the fiberglass shell of our “frog car,” a Ford EXP, was the same as their Mercury LN-7. The major sponsor had initiated a separate event to go along with the U.S. Nationals held each Labor Day weekend in Indianapolis. Their event was to take funny cars as they qualified at other national events, have eight of them paired and race (actually during qualification for the national event). We were currently fourth in the running for the eight car field. The car that bore the name of the sponsor for the event had been
mathematically eliminated from the field one race before Labor Day. 

The plot had thickened. To have their car in the field they had to have one which appeared like theirs and had qualified. We were that car. Jim called me to fill me in on the proposal. We would be sponsored just that one weekend, sort of a rent-a-car deal. The group that needed our help went on to win three consecutive world titles in funny car. It is with this Personal snicker I remember during the inaugural “Shoot-Out” as it was called, it was our red car which was the ...“BUDWEISER King”.

It is amazing what Jim knew about the road.

When George began to drive the car Jim stayed home to care for business. We renovated the interior of the four-door pickup so it had creature comforts only for two. On the occasions when Jim did join us his choice of seating was limited. Something about the situation served a bit of poetic justice. Jim had encouraged us to make the truck comfortable for the two of us. For all too long, Jim had traveled with his smelly dog, a travel TV, and oh so much litter.

The times Jim joined us were a mixed blessing for me. I love Jim like a family, yet history has proved that I don’t live too well with family (or anyone else). We ate better with Jim around, at least more often. We would occasion motels, where George and I for the most part slept in the Chevrolet Hilton.

Jim even with his distance from us could keep in touch with some amazing details. We kept an expense book. I would record the various expenses. On a visit with Jim driving he asked me to total the book, he and I both made an estimate as to the expenses. For the period of weeks we had been apart I was not at all sure of what we had spent. Jim estimated within a few dollars.

You Guys -- CALL HOME

There must be something in the adage, no news is good news. At least that is what reclusive George and I often practiced when we were on the road with the WOMBAT, a fuel funny car owned by Jim. Jim had the knack of coming up with the needed funds to maintain the racing operation. Some, a small portion of the money he had acquired, was mine.
We were just beginning to find out what was needed to run the car, gain some experience, and on occasion break only a few of the major parts. Racing fuel-motored cars was and is not easy.  The nature of the beast is that they are very apt to do major damage. Set them safe they may not do as much harm to mechanical parts: they will do it more slowly. Set them too strong and they will most likely overpower the track surface or worst of all burn. When the nitro-fueled motor is set too lean it will burn hot enough to melt the aluminum engine parts in just a few seconds.
Our attempts were gaining us some results and reputation. Jim maintained a network of communication to suppliers, track owners as he booked us, and afforded the entire business management for our operation. We had all we could do at the time to digest what we learned from the car: run it, fix it, and get to the next place to run it. What we knew: we knew we wanted to move in only small increments. Jim would hear of our success and failures from other owners.  During one of these conversations he indicated he had ideas on how to improve our times. The other owner indicated he insisted his crew was to follow his instructions. The tone was he would lay down the law to them. That was not Jim’s style anyway. He did indicate that even if it were he could not follow the practice because for the last two weeks he did not know where we were.      You Guys -- Call Home.

Someone Asked WHOSE CAR is it? 

For about five years the crew for our fuel funny car, the Wombat, had included Jim, who supported the vast majority of the operation and was considered to be the unquestioned owner, George, who had replaced Jim as the driver after about one year: he, too, was to be considered the principal mechanic, and “Uncle” Bert, the world’s greatest crew-chief. Here, too, is another story.

Each of us had a major and particular role or function. Jim was responsible for the acquisition of all necessary parts, supplies, as well as major purchases. He made the decisions as to where the car would run, obtained bookings, entered major events: after all, he was the owner. George was responsible for the day to day maintenance of the race car. He too made the decisions as to the tuning of the motor. The safety of the operation was his concern for it was he who would most likely be affected were the car to fail. I was crew-chief and did all I could to assist Jim and George. My special area of expertise was the clutch. I made sure the power of the motor was correctly applied to the surface of the track. Between races I saw to it that the car got from place to place, we had a place to stay, and tied up any and all loose ends. Each of us had a virtual VETO power over the operation.

The roles were mutually accepted by the three of us. We were all aware of the high level of cooperative effort needed for any one of us to have any fun at what we were doing. It is funny, too, how at times we really saw the operation as a life apart from our own. I remember we were gathered around the tailgate of the large pickup we used as a race hauler. The car was tethered to it, ready to be taken to the “line” to race. Maybe there was a rain delay that day. A lone young man approached us. He likely had a program in his hand, looking for autographs. He tentatively approached us, we looked friendly even though we were actively engaged in conversation.
“Whose car is that?” he asked.
We all responded, something like a hot potato. I pointed to George as the driver, George always considered Jim the owner, pointed to him. Jim, in the cooperative spirit, or maybe avoiding some creditor, pointed to me. Or maybe this triangle demonstrated it really was what we generally referred to it as Our Car.

Jim found a trailer -- BRING IT BACK

We had been fuel funny car racing several years. We had begun to get our car down the track.  Now on rare occasions we were beating the car next to us. Consistency was still a long way off.  We were now more than weekend racers. All George and I did was race the car. Jim had purchased one of the first four door dual wheel pickups Chevrolet made. Actually I had helped a lot. I had found the truck and knew the salesman. Really I was due a finder’s fee from both. 
Somewhere in the Chicago area, several hundred miles from upstate New York, Jim had found another Chaparral. He had found one that was more suitable a while back but I had other uses for my money. The price on this trailer was much better. George and I were sent with cash for the purchase. The unit was in good condition, it was clean, good tires, it had been represented correctly. The length as I remember was twenty-four feet. There were several other features which exceeded the trailer we were using.
George could stand inside the trailer easily, I could not. In addition to being low we found it was so narrow we would need to remove the exhaust headers from the car in order to get it inside. The unit was no doubt good for the price, my concern was not the purchase at all. George was taken with the value and the idea of a Chaparral fifth-wheel trailer. My concern was that we would have to use it, with what I considered its major size limitations. Pointing this out to George he too realized our plight were we to tow it home.
We called Jim. We explained our observation to him. We were not sold at all. He saw the cost of the trip as total overhead: the unit as Potential for resale at a Profit. He got on the phone with the seller, talked them into a lower price (relaying to them that we were not pleased), talked again to us, and somehow convinced us of his wisdom to bring it back.