Caution: Beware Of Angels At Work

"That taught me something. I don't know. It's a different breed that likes thrill shows, but they're very loyal. Very loyal. And don't mistake this: it ain't monkeys out there in the stands. It's just home folks."

By contrast, Chitwood's view has been that of the performer: inside out. He is an expert on every phase of the business. He can evaluate clowns and announcers with just as much authority as he rates drivers or mechanics or cars. He is not, though (and neither are his sons), a student of the crowds. To tell Joie Sr. that the crowd liked the show is of no solace whatsoever to him if he feels that the performance was technically imperfect.

"There's a fair we play in Dunkirk, N.Y.," Joie says. "They had these Army tanks there at the track, and they wanted to run over the junk cars we were done with. I said it didn't make any difference to me; we had to get rid of the junkers somehow, though to tell you the truth, I couldn't understand why they wanted to go through all that.

"It showed me I didn't know what I was talking about. You should have heard those people scream when the tanks started rolling over those cars and grinding them up. Everyone stayed to see it, and they do it every year now, because it was such a success. The people just shout and scream when those tanks start grinding those cars up. I turn my back. It's sickening."

Still, the thrill show is not as morbid as it once was, and the proof is the popularity of the two-wheel stunt. It is an entirely fresh concept in the business. It breaks all the rules. There is no great danger involved. It is not done at high speed. It is not a quick sensation, over in seconds. It is not humorous. It is accompanied by neither fireworks nor other special effects. It is pure. When the fans see Junior or Timmy go over the high skis with the right tires and suddenly realize that the car is actually going to stay tilted that way and travel for some distance, they are nearly dumfounded. They rise slowly, in awe, and stand, as a body, openmouthed. On the P.A., Zany Dohany must remind them to applaud, which they do thereafter with uncommon zeal.

Junior has driven 2.6 miles for the two-wheel record at Daytona Beach before 100,000 and is so accomplished that he could go much farther if he were ever challenged to. Even now, he often fails purposely to get balance right away so that when at last he does it appears a more genuine accomplishment. "Timmy's just as good as Junior," Joie Sr. says, "but he's all over the track. Actually, this is better for us, because Junior's so smooth people think that it's got to be a trick."

When the brothers are both up and moving together, in close formation around a track, the effect is marvelously eerie. Everything seems so out of joint, with cars moving in tandem, rakishly tilted like straw hats on a buck-and-wing team. The Chitwoods complete the circuit and, still gliding on edge, bring the Camaros right up facing the center of the grandstand, poise them in salute and then let them come down, as if the automobiles were bowing themselves. It is much like when Roy Rogers would dismount and stand aside as Trigger would duck his head and paw at the ground, indicating "thank you" or "pleased to meet you" or whatever he had in mind.

As sure as Chevrolet makes cars, though, a man sells more tickets by defying death than by defying balance. The two-wheel closes the first act; the jump closes the show the way it always has.

Now it is time to jump again. Junior is ready to open a new thrill-show season. It is Albany, Ga., the New Albany Dragway and Junior has not jumped in eight months. "I asked him this afternoon," Noreen says. "You're jumping a new car. Don't you want to make at least one practice jump? He just said 'No,' and that was that." Like his son, Joie Sr. did not exhibit any special concern. He did map out the town for good barbecue.

Late in the afternoon Junior does go out and run the car that is reserved strictly for jumping. Timmy rides along with his brother. They hitch up a fifth wheel behind the jump car and drive up and down the drag strip. The fifth wheel is calibrated to measure the speedometer delicately, which is vital. To make the jump without error, Junior's car must be going 42 mph when it takes off. He says he has only half-a-mile-per-hour tolerance either way for safety. This is a far cry from the offhand reckoning his father depended on. Joie Sr. claims that he went 70 mph when he made his record 125' jumps. Junior laughs. "My dad always says that," he says, "but the truth is he didn't really know how fast he was going. He just measured it by going wide open in second gear—whatever that was." The jump man who served in the transitional period between Joie Sr. and Junior relinquished the job after he overshot the ramp by 40 feet one night, proving conclusively that it is not wise to drink and jump.