Promoter J.P. Rotton’s 1953 Studebaker Starlight Coupe, which was painted with gold dust. (click for larger version)

April 16, 2009

Birmingham International Raceway (BIR), the third oldest automobile racetrack in the nation (only the Milwaukee Mile and Indianapolis Motor Speedway are older), has been demolished to make way for an indoor golf driving range. That change is part of Birmingham Mayor Larry Langford’s revitalization dreams for the Alabama State Fairgrounds in Five Points West.

Originally built as a one-mile horsetrack, the facility hosted a motorcycle race in 1906, its first foray into motorsports that eventually led to at least 95 years of auto racing. Some of the greatest names in automobile history passed through its gates. In 1925, the now-razed 8,000-seat grandstand was constructed, hosting the renowned Chevrolet brothers as they unveiled a new dirt-track race car. Richard Petty, David Pearson, and a trio of upstarts from Miami—Red Farmer, Bobby Allison, and Donnie Allison (who became famous as the Alabama Gang)—are part of the track’s history.

Most races were held in conjunction with the state fair until promoter J.P. Rotton began putting on Sunday afternoon races in the late 1940s. Tom Gloor took over racing promotion there in 1962, paving the dirt track and installing proper lighting that ushered in the city’s golden era of Friday night racing. Gloor changed the track’s name to Birmingham International Raceway.

 

More than one driver lost control of his car and plowed through the wooden fence, ending up in the “hog barn.” (click for larger version)

 

 

 

Though the track attracted sparse crowds during its final decade, events there once drew huge audiences. “I had some good days over a long period of time at BIR. I had good fortune there, and I was cocky about that,” NASCAR racing legend Bobby Allison says, during a recent afternoon telephone conversation from his North Carolina home. “I first got there in ’59 before they paved it, and the place impressed me from the first day. Then, when Tom Gloor took over in ’62, it became one of my favorite racetracks in the whole country. When Tom paved it, he stretched the front straightaway out to where it was closer to the grandstand.”

Rotton began promoting races at the Fairgrounds Raceway in the 1940s. As the 90-year-old Rotton recalls, “I had built a small racetrack called the Iron Bowl out in Roebuck, but it didn’t have a grandstand. So I decided to rent a racetrack. That Iron Bowl had no seats or nothing. People were sneaking in through the woods to get in free. These guys from Graysville and Sumiton wanted a place to race, and there were some bootleggers out of Chattanooga and Nashville that wanted to come down here and run. That was in 1946.”

Rotton eventually talked a reluctant fairgrounds manager into letting him run four races, where he drew some 6,000 spectators for each event. The crowd size impressed the facility’s manager. “He kept 20 percent of the gate and he got all the concessions,” says Rotton, who promoted races at the fairgrounds from 1946 through 1960. “We put on a good show. Mostly, we ran ’34 Fords and ’33 and ’34 Chevrolet coupes.”

 

A Corvette leads a parade of new-model cars before a race at the fairgrounds in the early 1950s. (click for larger version)

 

 

 

Rotton worked with an automobile body-work specialist named Cannonball Brown. Rotton also maintained a stable of his own race cars in addition to his promo duties. “I had a 1953 Studebaker Starlight Coupe that we set up to run really fast, and you’ve never seen anything like it. Back then, Studebaker was a joke,” he recalls. “Ol’ Cannonball Brown was a country boy painter. He asked me what color I wanted, and I said I wanted it really sharp looking. Cannonball said, ‘You want it painted gold?’ I asked him if he could find some gold paint. And Cannonball said, ‘No, I don’t wanna buy no gold paint, I wanna buy some gold dust.’ Gold was $8 an ounce then. So I said, ‘OK, but be sure and get enough,’ and I think he got two or three pounds. It cost us around $400,” Rotton remembers. “He painted on this red primer, then sprinkled in the gold dust and added layers of clear lacquer. When the sun hit it, it would just sparkle. You ain’t never seen anything like it . . . I always thought money was made to spend!”

One of the great anecdotes in fairgrounds racing lore concerns a race in the late 1950s during which Nero Steptoe won a 25-lap race after losing his front left wheel several laps in. Rotton smiles when asked about Steptoe. “Ol’ Nero was leading the race, and he was going into the first turn and the wheel and all came off. The car didn’t fall, it stayed up. Nero came around and we kept giving him the black flag [which signals the driver to pull off the track] but he wouldn’t stop. I said, ‘Give him the green flag!’ [allowing him to stay in the race] We paid the second-place driver for the win because we should have disqualified Nero. Everybody in the world knew who Nero was from then on.”

Jerry Massey, an 80-year-old former racer and car owner at the Fairgrounds Raceway, claims that the dirt at the track was from Kentucky. “It was the best dirt in the country. You could go like a blizzard,” he remembers. “I knew, because I used to ride with the guy that used to scrape the racetrack and turn the dirt over and put salt in it. Riding with him taught me a lot about how to read dirt. If it had a dull color, you could get a good hold [tire grip] of it. If it was bright and shiny, it’s too slick. You didn’t want to run where the bright and shiny was at.” The Allison brothers and Red Farmer were living in Miami in the 1950s and didn’t realize how much more money was paid to race winners in Alabama than in Florida. Bobby Allison had earned $95 finishing second at a big race in West Palm Beach. After some other Florida racers spread the word about the quality racing in Alabama, Allison and his younger brother Donnie decided to head north. “Donnie and I had a pretty good relationship. We supported each other about 85 percent of the time and fought each other the other 15 percent,” Allison says. “We loaded up and headed for Alabama, and I finished fifth at Dixie Speedway out in Midfield. I went to the pay window and the guy gave me 135 bucks—way more than I had won finishing second in a major event in south Florida. I said, ‘Donnie, we’ve died and gone to heaven. Look at all this money!’ So we went to Miss Mary’s Drive-Inn that we’d passed on the drive up and got one of her $1.98 steaks that she used to have advertised out there on the marquee. And Donnie and I found one of those little roadside inns on the way to Montgomery [where they raced the next day], and instead of sleeping in the truck, we bought a $2 motel room.”

 

Chattanooga’s Friday Hassler was a Birmingham International Raceway legend. He was killed while attempting to qualify for the 1972 Daytona 500. (click for larger version)

 

 

 

Bobby Allison purchased the contract to operate the track for the 1976–’77 seasons. BIR was where his good friend Neil Bonnett and later, Allison’s son, Davey, both found early success (Davey Allison died in a helicopter accident at Talladega Superspeedway in 1993, a crash that Red Farmer survived. Bonnett was killed during a practice run for the 1994 Daytona 500.) “It breaks my heart that BIR is gone,” Allison admits. “But it was a great place, and I have great memories.” &

My Turn

In the summer of 1998, I was hanging around Birmingham International Raceway while researching a story about the track. A driver nicknamed Sluggo asked if I’d ever driven a race car. I had not, so he graciously let me drive his racing Camaro some 30 laps with no other cars on the track on that Sunday afternoon.

It was fun until I put my foot on the brake pedal to come in for a pit stop and the pedal went straight to the floor. I had to coast an entire lap, as it takes a while to roll to a stop when you’re going 90 mph. Amused at my timidity to “put some speed on that thing,” as well as the fact that I was riding around with no brakes my first time in a race car, Sluggo told me I wouldn’t achieve a true racing experience until I had been on the track with other cars.

He wasn’t kidding. One Friday night, Sluggo turned the Camaro over to me during the 7 p.m. practice session for street stock cars, the classification in which he was competing later that evening. I was more or less “mixing it up” with a dozen other cars at race speeds. Nauseated from fear when I heard the engines being revved at deafening levels upon my arrival at the track, I was almost shaking when I climbed into the car. The worried expression on Sluggo’s face suggested that he was beginning to have second thoughts about putting me out there with the other drivers. Nevertheless, he reassured me that the brake failure a couple weeks earlier had been rectified. I’ll never forget his final instructions before I drove off: “Hey, if you wreck it, buddy, don’t worry about it . . . ’cause we’re just out here to have fun.” With those words of encouragement, I attempted to merge onto the track as several cars stormed out of turn number four at more than 100 mph.

Somehow, I put the car into the middle of race traffic, and away I went. I held on for dear life as cars passed me on the right and left, often at the same time. There were no side mirrors on the Camaro, just a wide rearview mirror above the dash. The full-face helmet and painfully tight seat harnesses that strapped me in allowed for nearly zero peripheral vision. I’ll never forget the sight of race cars rapidly approaching in my mirror. Suddenly, a car in front of me slowed, which meant that I would have to pass another driver. I sweated bullets but somehow stayed out for 10 noble laps.

I drove slowly through the corners but floored it as I exited the second and fourth turns, blasting down the respective straightaways (approximately 150 yards in length) at a top speed of maybe 90 mph before having to turn left again. On the 10th lap, the car’s rear fishtailed out of control as I tried to increase my speed between turns one and two. I gripped the steering wheel to brace myself for impact, with either the outside retaining wall or another car. I knew from racing lore at BIR that I’d probably have to fight whomever I wrecked—if I were still conscious. Amazingly, the car straightened out as I lifted off the accelerator. (The pros know you usually step on the gas to straighten out a sliding car, but I didn’t have that much courage.)

I barely touched the accelerator again as I crept down the back straightaway doing maybe 30 mph as others whizzed by at 120 mph. I returned to the pit, where Sluggo shook his head in shame, though relieved that I brought his Camaro back in one piece. The brakes indeed worked well, and I never had a desire to race again. —E.R.