“It’s Jack Jenkins!   It’s Jack Jenkins.  Bob, it is Jack Jenkins!  It’s Jack *^##^<> Jenkins!”  These were the first words Sam had spoken since we passed Jack Cooper’s house.  Sam had sat silently with a white-knuckled, double-fisted grip on my dash.  Now he was squirming and sliding all over my front seat as though he were sitting on hot ashes with a frantic, distraught look on his face.

“Sam, Sam, what are you doing?” I asked.  “What are you looking for?”  Sam held the head of his seatbelt in his hand.

“The other end of this belt,” Sam exclaimed.  “Where did it go?”  Magically, he found the head end of the middle passenger belt.  Desperately, he looped it around the other head of the seatbelt held in his hand and pulled both ends into a tight knot around his waist.  Sam, as well as I, knew Jack Jenkins was no joke.

Jack Jenkins was a hot-rodder from the ‘50s.  He was a James Dean throwback.  However, Jack separated himself from the hot-rod cowboys of his era.  He would not run the beat-you-to-the-next-light, the quarter mile, or 0-100 races.  Instead, Jack built his reputation on the one mile, three mile, five mile run.  As he would tell a challenger, “I’ll pass you on top end.”  Jack backed that brag with a 1960 two door hardtop Ford Starliner.  The three-hundred and sixty horsepower of the 352 cubic inch super V-8 powerhouse just began to gallop at a hundred miles per hour. 

Jack’s preferred raceway stretch was US 1 running south to north.  The start line was the Oasis Tavern located on the left about one tenth mile north of Roberdell Road and Highway 1 intersection and the finish line was the crossroads intersection of Wiregrass Road and US 1.  A coin toss determined the lead car as both speed demons pulled out of the Oasis parking lot.  Jack did not really care if he was the leader or the follower.  Legend has it that Jack never lost a race.  By using the crossroads at Foxport as a finish line, both speedsters had time to slow down enough to turn into Parker’s Bait & Tackle Shop.  Here, Jack collected his winnings and carved another notch into his steering wheel before going to the house.  Jack’s home place was located on Highway 1 about two miles south of the North Carolina Motor Speedway.

Jack could and would pass anywhere before he reached Foxport.  However, he had two favorite passing lanes if he were the trailer.  Once Jack topped the hill in Philadelphia at Walt McLean’s Pure Oil filling station (a gas/beer joint), he would pull into the left lane and punch the Starliner into passing gear.  Other times, Jack would fool his opponent into believing he was faster than Jack.  Jack would trail until he reached Jimmy Lowry’s house.  Before he reached Mr. Linker’s neighbor grocery, Jack was back in front with the finish line intersection less than a hundred yards away.  Jack never wasted his time and gas to race the short sprints.  No, Jack went for distance.  He was the marathon king and yes, he was the legend of his time! 

I suddenly had the legend of yesteryear racing door-to-door with me as I steamrolled down Wiregrass Road.  We both were committed to go the distance.  By the way, in 1970 Wiregrass Road was just an open country highway between US 1 and Hamlet.  It was not as civilized with different speed limit signs, a stoplight, and commercial sites as it is now.  Meanwhile, I glanced out my left window and saw Jack arm-wrestling the steering wheel of his ’67 Mercury Marquis with the Mercury-exclusive three hundred and thirty horse power, 410 cubic inch big block engine.  Just before we crossed the bridge, Jack pulled around me and moved in front.  Page one of my plan worked.  Jack was convinced he motored past me and was in front to stay.  It was now a Paul Harvey moment, page two: the rest of the story.

As Jack and I crossed the bridge and ascended the long steep hill, I allowed the distance between us to grow to about thirty-five yards.  “Hang on, Sam.  We are going to dust that big Mercury in front of us.  Too frightened to speak, Sam nodded his head as he tightened the seatbelt heads and reapplied his vise-grip once again on my dash.  As I quickly closed the distance between us, I did not try to hide my intentions.  I flipped on my left turn signal, pulled out into the passing lane, and punched my Plymouth.  King Richard would have been proud of me.  With Talladega like acceleration, My Duster 340 quickly gobbled up the real estate between us like a hog gobbles slop.  Even though Jack was pushing fifty-five more horses under the hood than I was, it should have been no surprise to me how rapidly I drove up on his rear bumper.  His huge Mercury outweighed my little Plymouth by fifteen hundred pounds.  Just as I was about to push my front bumper on the inside of the Grand Marquis rear bumper, Jack became the Intimidator Impersonator  as he straddled the center line to block me from passing.  Dale Earnhardt, Sr. would have been proud of Jack.  Jack drove the remaining distance to Hamlet with the white centerline of Wiregrass Road directly under his Mercury. I stayed in the left passing lane with my turn signal blinking away while occasionally blowing my horn.  With Jack taking his half of Wiregrass in the middle, I was never able to pass him even with the Daytona draft.  Needless to say, Sam and I arrived in Laurinburg early.  Driving speeds over one hundred and ten when going anywhere will put one ahead of schedule every time.

To be continued…