Wing Side Up

By Bob Gangwer

09.02.09-Oswego, NY…Dad just left the gPad.  It seems weird to have him come to my house now.  Lately, there’s a lot of things in my life that seem pretty weird.  As usual, when I fell contemplative, stressed, or introspective, I’m tuned in and testifyin to the Blues on my favorite iTunes station.

I don’t know that I really feel like writing.  I’d just as soon be done with the computer after spending literally all day at it.  Doing stuff for SUPRS, writing new commercials for tomorrow nights show, trying to understand how the new move to all in house production is going to work, and finalizing a brand new design on the newsletter has left me more than ready to retire to my couch and my own thoughts.

I know, however, that I need to do this.  As much for me as for the people that will be clicking the link in Wing Side Up Weekly to read what I think about this being the 25th year of coming to Oswego for my dad and me.  So here I sit, ready to pour it all out for those that have heard it before and for those that still don’t understand why a guy who lived his whole life in Indiana within a 3 hour radius of nearly 50 great race tracks and racers would move all the way to New York for just one track.  Get ready this is gonna be a long one.

Molded Into Shape

Twenty-five years of coming to Oswego Speedway to see the International Classic 200.  I’ll be honest.  I missed one.  It was 1996.  I had a novel idea that I could prove to my fiance at the time that I could go without seeing Classic.  It ended up being more of an experiment in floor pacing, arguing, and animosity  than it did showing how dedicated I was to the relationship.  Admittedly, I was a worthless, wretched & mean moron that weekend in 1996.  It was then that I came to realize that “you can take the Bob out of supermodified racing, but you can’t take the supermodified racing out of Bob.”

Right, wrong or indifferent, I haven’t missed a Classic since.  Probably more wrong than right if you want to get down to it.  I have yet to celebrate my son’s birthday with my son on his birthday.  You see, Sheldon is what I call my Classic baby.  He was born in the midst of my separation from my wife on Classic Weekend in 1994.  She went into labor on Classic Weekend, and beings I was the coach and soon to be divorced husband, not to mention the father, I stuck it out.  To say it was awkward is a bit of an understatement, but it all worked out for the best and when it was said and done, I was the proud father of a new baby boy.  I got my wish and he was named Sheldon after Sheldon Kinser and Anthony after my father.  Both names befitting of the trials he faced from the womb as the son of divorced parents.  Sheldon Kinser was one of the strongest people I ever watched race.  Throughout his battle with cancer he continued to race and win.  He never gave up and strapped in behind the wheel of a sprint car and endured through the pain, pushing himself to go on in the type of race car that killed many a racer before their time.   My father, well, he’s a lot like that too.  He doesn’t give up, he does his best and is an honorable, respectable man.  He didn’t always have the most or the best growing up.  He did what he had to do to help raise his sister while my grand parents worked their fingers to the bone running presses in the sweltering heat of a rubber extrusion factory.  He had his moment to race and win going up against the likes of Page Reynolds back in the day.  He gave it up and took care of his family by becoming a journeyman fire protection sprinkler fitter.  He wasn’t always at the school functions, or there to help with homework, but dad was always there silently guiding and shaping me his only son.

What If?

So here I am in Oswego.  I’m going to miss another of Sheldon’s birthdays.  It isn’t something I am very proud of to be honest.  I know it hasn’t helped form a good bond between myself and my only son and it would be easy to think that I can get all of those years back.  It would also be easy for those that don’t know me, and even many of those who do, to judge me as an unfit and uncaring, selfish father.  I don’t like to consider myself that, but there are times, right now included, that I see all that my father has done for me, and how little I have done for my son.

What’s not so easy is to understand why I am the way I am about this place that I moved too.  I can’t explain it myself and don’t know if there really is a way to lay it out.  In my lifetime I’ve been called a free spirit, one of a kind, a gypsy, an easy come-easy go kind of guy and a nomad.  it must be that most people see me as some type of race chasing hippy these days.  I’ll be honest, there are times when I feel like I could just pack my gear and hitch a ride to the next supermodified show.  I have responsibilities like the next person but I guess i refuse to be bound because I want to go, I want to see, I want to experience.  I don’t want to go to my deathbed thinking to myself “What if?”

Moving On Up

Maybe that’s the reason I’m here in Upstate.  I feel very at home, very comfortable, and nearly like what I perceive to be a native New Yorker.  I love the land, the seasons (yes EVEN the winters), the people and the history of this part of the country.  But truly the reason I’m here is because of supermodified racing.

I guess it was about 5 years ago now that my friend Randy Ritskes came to me at Stafford Motor Speedway and asked me if I wanted a job.  Mind you I was a bit delirious from driving the Shirey Racing motor home all night from Oberlin, OH and was still in awe at the sight that lay before me after waking up for the first time at this legendary race track, so maybe I jumped a little too fast and said “sure man I need a job.”  It came to pass that this job was installing office furniture throughout Upstate and working right alongside Randy.  It sure seemed like a great chance to be closer to my friends and make some decent cash along the way.  My point being is that had it not been for supermodified racing, I would have never been presented that proposition by Randy.

I was lucky enough to be taken in by George and Joanne Geroux and even though I overstayed my welcome by a couple months, it was something that I will never forget and will always be indebted to them for.  It was also something that I truly enjoyed because each morning I could get up and look at the back grandstands at Oswego Speedway.  I would get up, make some coffee(single serve because Jo can’t stand the smell of coffee and George doesn’t drink it so it was never in the house), go to the back deck and look out at the backstretch and turn three.  I’d watch the turkey vultures roost on the fence and my mind would wander.  I would think about how much I’d missed out on by not being here sooner.

A Site to Behold

They say that you go where you are supposed to be in life.  I think that I’m supposed to be here.  Maybe I felt that pull all those years ago when I was making crayon drawings of Jimmy Shampine’s rear engine offset super and begging my dad to take me to “that one big race in New York.”

I think back now and I can’t begin to remember all the stories that have happened in 25 years, but I won’t ever forget that first time coming here with my father.  I won’t ever forget what it was like seeing the sites as we drove along the road.  I won’t ever forget what it was like when we turned up Shampine Drive and saw that awesome steel sign announcing that we had arrived at Oswego Speedway.  I especially will always remember the first time we set foot inside those big steel gates on this hallowed ground of supermodified racing.  I can remember looking up at the flag stand and wondering why it was on the inside of the track.  I remember touching the inside hub rail and thinking how big the place was.  I remember what I was wearing, I remember dad taking a Polaroid picture of me standing by a sign that said “The Home of the Supermodifieds.”  I remember putting our little borrowed Starcraft pop up camper down by the creek on the flats.  Of course at that time I didn’t know it was called the flats but that where we were.  Right back where the road curves to go to the dumping station.

I had no idea who Harry Caruso was, had never seen a push truck for every car, a pace car painted like a supermodified, or that much steel in one place in my life.  Nor had I ever dreamed that you could put that many campers in one race track.  I mean I’d been to a good many Dri-Power 400s(now called the Winchester 400) dating back to 1974 and there sure seemed like a lot of campers, but it was nothing like this.  I remember having a Hoffman’s with sauerkraut and brown mustard in the back grandstand.  Then they pushed the cars off that first time.  I don’t even remember where dad and I were for sure,  but I remember being in awe of the inside push lane and the way the cars came in and went out and I especially remember how many cars there were.  Most of them I had no idea who they were because I was so used to the locals and TRI-Sac guys.  So many supermodifieds, so many people, so much steel and a smile as wide as the race is long, I think, in my mind at the time, I realized what I wanted out of life.

In Perspective

The other night my ma & pa had dinner with Danette and me and we were joined by my dear friend and mentor Jimmy Shirey.  We all got to talking about how long I had known Jim and all the stuff I’ve been lucky enough to learn from him down through the years.  We were looking at some older photos that I brought out from 1986 and we were trying to remember who was who.  After a while a name came to me and I blurted it out loud and Jimmy agreed that was who we were trying to remember.  My dad piped up and asked me out of the blue, “What did you have for lunch yesterday?”  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I couldn’t remember for sure, so I said, “I don’t know.”  He said “You can remember all that stuff, but you can’t remember what you had for lunch?”  I replied something to the effect that I was getting old.  Jimmy asked me how old I was now and I said 41, 42 in December.  He laughed and told us that he’s 58.  Dad really brought it full circle when he said, “Do you realize you are as old as I was the first time we came here?”

It hit me.  I mean it really hit me how many years that I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy doing this with my father.  It made me feel pretty special that my dad sacrificed for me and I wondered what he was thinking as he made that first 600 mile trip to bring me here.  Was he worried about money?  Was he worried that we’d make it ok?  Was he afraid we wouldn’t find it?  It was just us.  Dad and me.  It also scared me and made me feel very mortal.  How much longer will we both be able to do this?  How many more years will the track, the friends, the family, hell even our society be around?  I don’t ever want to think of the day that I can’t sit next to my dad for the start of Classic, wave our hats on the pace lap, and say a prayer for the drivers who are now my friends.  This is a big reason why I cry at the start of every Classic.  I have since that first one.  I’m happy that my father and I have this one special place, no matter who else is around, or what else is happening in our lives, that binds us in mutual love and respect.

Simple Understanding

Do you know now why I get so upset when I think we are losing Oswego Speedway?  Do you know now why I become frustrated that things aren’t going as I think they should so that more fathers and sons can enjoy this experience we call, (or should ALWAYS call), International Classic 200 Weekend?  Do you understand now how a man from Indiana can move away from his family and fall into love with a track that runs a 200 lap supermodified race?

Maybe not.  I hope someday my son will understand all of this, I hope that I haven’t forsaken a relationship with my son trying to save the place that helped to rekindle the relationship my father and I have.  To me Oswego and Classic Weekend is about family, it’s about passion, it’s about making new friends and seeing old ones while we watch our friends and heroes risk their lives as they chase their dreams.  I hope someday my son can experience all of this with me like I have with my father.

So 25 years, it’s not even half as many years as there have been International Classic 200s.  But to my father and me, it’s a pretty important milestone for a couple of Hoosiers and i hope you won’t mind if both dad and I have a tear in our eyes at the start of International Classic 200 this year.  Dad I love you, thanks for finally giving in and bringing me here for that first time and thanks for being here ever since.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

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