The Stowaway at Turn Four By: Jim Gandolf

Opening Day in May

The Stowaway at Turn Four

 (1977 Edition)

Poem

By:Jim Gandolf

©️12062025

The year was nineteen-seventy-seven, I was barely twelve years old,

With a pocket full of nothing and a story to be told.

My mother held the steering wheel, her knuckles white and tight,

Of a heavy Ford Gran Torino in the fading dark of night.

She didn’t have the money for the tickets at the gate,

But she knew her boys loved racing, and she wouldn't make us wait.

So she popped the heavy trunk lid, and she told us, "Climb inside,"

Me and my older brother, for a dark and bumpy ride.

We curled around the spare tire, amid the jack and steel,

Listening to the gravel crunch beneath the grinding wheel.

The suspension groaned and rattled as she raced to claim a space,

A smuggler’s run to glory, just to get us near the race.

The darkness smelled of rubber and the exhaust from pipes below,

We bounced across the infield dirt, jostled to and fro.

Then—the glorious click of the latch! The lid rose to the sky,

Five-thirty in the morning, with the sun just barely high.

We tumbled out near Turn Four, amidst the dew and chill,

The massive track was silent, the asphalt grey and still.

No engines would be firing until the clock struck eleven,

But sitting there on the damp grass, I felt close enough to Heaven.

We spread an old wool blanket out to claim our patch of ground,

With a box of Long’s warm donuts that my mother somehow found.

The smell of yeast and sugar glaze mixed with the morning air,

And quietly, upon that quilt, I bowed my head in prayer.

I prayed to see the legends, the heroes of the day,

I prayed the Lord would clear the view and sweep the crowds away.

And as the clock struck eleven, the air began to churn,

The answer to my prayer came screaming through the turn.

I saw the flash of Coyote Red—A.J. Foyt flew by!

The "Gilmore" on his sidepod barely caught my widening eye.

He was chasing down a fourth ring, a king upon his throne,

With a Turbo-Foyt V8 engine in a rhythm all its own.

Then came the rumble of a change, a history in the make,

I saw Janet Guthrie pass, with everything at stake.

The first woman on the tarmac, with a courage distinct and clear,

Silencing the doubters with the shifting of a gear.

I watched Tom Sneva rocketing, a blur of blue and white,

Chasing two-hundred miles an hour with mesmerizing might.

The "CAM 2" Motor Oil machine, pushing past the limit,

My twelve-year-old heart stopped beating for a solitary minute.

The Lord gave me that vision, crisp as crystal glass,

Every rivet, every sponsor, on the cars that ripped the grass.

The ride home was a nightmare, brake lights in a line,

Bumper to bumper traffic, stalling out the time.

But slumped in the Gran Torino’s seat—no longer in the trunk—

I was drunk on speed and gasoline, and a memory fully sunk.

A poor boy with a donut, and a mother’s desperate drive,

The day I saw the legends race, and felt truly alive.

Jim Gandolf 

I will never forget that day in May 1977.