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	Holidaying in the USA - What a drag...... says Chris Willows We've all been there - a family holiday or business trip in the USA over a Grand Prix weekend and the frustration of not being able to locate news, let alone see the race. There is ESPN2 but no hotel I've ever stayed in offered this facility and one is left reluctantly tuned in to basketball or wrestling. This past September was my most recent experience of this maddening phenomenon. Having ascertained that the upcoming US GP at Indianapolis had failed to stimulate mainstream USA's appetite for GP racing, I hunted around for some other motor sport to satisfy my benzene glands. Quite by chance I came across a website which listed all the IHRA drag strips in the US with a useful search facility to determine the closest (www.draglist.com). From my base in Greenville, South Carolina I learned that Ware Shoals Dragway was only 30 miles away. Track owner Rayford Gambrell invites the visitor to 'bring your coolers and grills, or use our concession stand, and enjoy the day with us. We have practice and grudge races on Friday nights, with Bracket racing on Saturdays.' 'If you haven't been to Ware Shoals, you've been missing some keen and dead on drag racing', he concluded. The last time I saw this form of the sport was the mid-sixties at Chelveston airfield and Santa Pod, so the terminology of the 'ad' did not exactly enlighten me. Nonetheless, I was free on Friday and determined to take in practice on a gloriously balmy late summer evening. This is when my enthusiasm for this esoteric (for me) branch of the sport rose from zero to double top! The 1/8th mile strip looked for all the world like narrow country road lined by simple fencing. At the 'business end' lay the water troughs to aid wheel spinning and the Christmas tree starting lights, flanked on either side by small grandstands and the event commentator's box. The paddock for the competitors ran along one side of the strip and was packed with all manner of cars from full rails (proper dragsters to you and me), through Altereds (cut down Model Ts and the like), Funny cars (highly modified Camaros, Mustangs and Corvettes) and road-going sedans to junior dragsters for young girls and boys. Some were clearly 'work in progress' with primered bodies, others rusted right through but the majority were bright, shapely and superbly prepared.		This panoply of colour parked amidst the fruit trees shared one characteristic. ...power. The ubiquitous V8s from Mopar, Chevy or Ford, all tuned to the limit of each owner's wallet, created a symphony of deep rumbling notes through drainpipe-sized mufflers. As each projectile took its turn at the start, the uneven combustion of a highly-tuned Detroit lump transformed into an ear-splitting cacophony as rear wheels spun to heat the tyres and generate, as a bi-product, clouds of acrid rubber smoke. With both contestants ready, and meticulously lined up, the green light despatched them like rocks from a catapult. In a mere four seconds the quicker machines turn from a ton of metal to a speck on the horizon - it's truly amazing! The process is quickly re-enacted and the action is non-stop. Having sated my Friday desire for noise and rubber I could not resist returning on Saturday for the 'races'. Relieved of a whole $10 (five more than the previous evening!) I shared Ware shoals for the next six hours with the competitors, their families and. around 30 spectators! Instantly recognised as the only mammal from more than 50 miles away, I was hailed by a middle aged lady who declared in a liquid toffee Southern drawl 'ewe wuz ear larst nite, wernt ewe?' Both her boyfriend and his father were racing and, coincidentally, drawn together in the first contest - age won! After this familial excitement she insisted on explaining the rules in some depth, which I won't try and recall here since these incredibly friendly and helpful people will do the same for you, dear reader, should you take my advice and go yourself. With practice over, the serious stuff begins. The commentator delivers a prayer for the drivers (this is the bible belt) and blesses the track. Car after car then anoints the tarmac with rubber, oil and the odd half shaft! I was particularly taken with a Sting Ray, which bore the legend 'Here Kitty Kitty' on its bonnet air intake, a gorgeous multi-coloured Galaxie and an upright Ford Anglia that made indecently rapid progress. I was even offered a big black Dodge (I think) with a very quick motor for $12000 which, if I lived in SC, would be difficult to turn down. On reflection the whole event reminded me of a 1960s Mallory Park clubbie. As a raw recruit to this friendly sport, I could go anywhere, even right behind the cars as they were doing their burn-outs, talk to the drivers and peer into the cars -all this for ten bucks and a hot dog! In the end I really didn't miss seeing Ferrari's victory at Monza and Michael's tears - this was altogether more fun and I commend it to any petrol head with a free weekend in the States next year . Postscript: My next visit to GPM - just two weeks later - coincided with the arrival of several models from SMTS in their new 'Quarter Mile' series. This includes two of 'Big Daddy' Don Garlits' rails and a couple of Willys funny cars. Could I resist them? What do you think?