If you walk into an auto repair shop today you'll find a business that's as shiny and clean as an upscale restaurant. The waiting room is clean and bright and nicely appointed with comfortable furniture, free coffee and usually a television. The service bays are well-lit, spotless and well organized. Auto mechanics are now referred to as automotive technicians. It's enough to send me into a funk.
When I was in high school, my best friend Donny's dad had an auto repair shop. It was housed in a rag-tag, wood building that looked like it might have been constructed around the turn of the last century. There were work benches on two walls, parts and pieces piled high on them. A tool chest sat next to one bench, stuffed full of tools. At the back of the shop was an antique welding machine, a drill press, metal lathe and a valve-grinding machine.
Chuck Rollins and his best friend and partner, Ace Gwinn spent their days breathing life into broken vehicles. I can still remember Chuck, or Mr. Rollins, as I called him at the time, a Lucky Strike cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he peered at a Stromberg carburetor in pieces on the bench. I was in awe of his automotive expertise. It seemed like he could fix most anything. Thinking back on it, I'm amazed he didn't tie us both up in the corner of the shop and stick rags in our mouthes. We must've pestered him with more questions than he could count, but he always took the time to explain what he was doing. And he let us help!
On the numerous occassions when we screwed something up he'd growl a little, redo whatever it was we'd screwed up and then go on to explain what we did wrong. When I told him how much I hated learning math he took the time to explain the importance of the subject. He taught me how to calculate compression ratios and gear ratios and displacement and . . . . the list goes on. Gradually math started to make more sense and I came to realize it's importance.
Donny and I had big dreams. We were going to learn all we could about automobiles and go racing. We were certain that one day we'd be working with a pit crew for A.J, Foyt, Richard Petty or Al Unser. Chuck would just grin and shake his head as he listened to us making plans for our future in the racing business. Neither of us realized it was the same dream Chuck had carried with him when he was our age.
By the time I graduated from high school my love of music was beginning to compete with my racing dreams. I wanted to do both. But mostly I really just wanted to go off to San Francisco and discover the world that lay far beyond the small farm town I'd lived in through most of my school years.
I never said good-by to Chuck. Graduation night I just left town. I lost touch with my friend Donny while I was gone and went on to pursue life the best way I knew to do. Over time I realized that the racing career I'd dreamed about wasn't going to become a reality. I traded my interest in cars for an apprenticeship as a millwright, building and installing large industrial machines.
Time passed quickly and I went back to Wenatchee for a time. One of my first stops when I got into town was at Chuck's shop. I knew something was amiss the minute I parked in front of the building. It was vacant and looked like it had been for awhile. I drove to what had been my favorite hang-out when I was a kid, the Night & Day Cafe, and looked up Donny's phone number. We talked for awhile, catching up on old times. Then I asked about his dad. Donny's voice choked a little and he didn't answer right away. "Dad died last year."
Sadness swept over me like cold rain water. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything for a minute.
Before I could find the words I was searching for, Donny continued. "It's okay. He died doing what he loved to do. He died right there in his shop."
Later that night I found myself smiling a bittersweet smile. Something told me he just might be racing down at Talledaga or Daytona Beach, his spirit alive and well in one of the young drivers getting started on a stellar racing career.
