Leaving home in San Bernardino at about 4:30 AM, I drove that Olds to Las Vegas in a little under three hours. Mike Houston and I arrived as early as anyone, to be flagmen at the SCCA races on McCarran airport. Must have been 1961 or so, I don't know what month. If I ever find my stash of dashplaques I may know.

A few weeks later, Fourth of July weekend, now that I think about it, Mike and I went to work flags at Hanford Raceway up there north of Fresno. Another way-too-early wakeup, but it was a major adventure from the time we signed in. They were very, very happy to see us on a Sunday morning. Merle Stanfield, Chief Something, made them wait to start the first practice while he wheeled Mike and I one lap around the course in his Austin Healey 100 so we could appreciate what was going on elsewhere, while we worked our position at the entrance to Turn One.

I don't actually remember much about the rest of the road course, but Turn One corresponded with the oval course Turn One. Then the road course bent back and forth inside the smaller oval at the south end, reconnected with the big oval and went north out of sight. I don't remember if there was any other monkey business at the north end, or if the course just stayed on the oval and came back past the pits and Start-Finish.

The surface was a little rough, I think, especially in the braking area near us. More tension, like at Pomona Turn One, but we were a little farther away from the track, so it wasn't as terrific. The rough parts were rough on the lighter vehicles, especially the two-wheeled ones. Several of the bike guys left patches of hot leather on the pavement near us. No broken bones. None they would admit to, I mean.

Otherwise, pretty much a regular Regional Race program from what I remember. (It was a Formula Racing Association program, I now Believe)

The vivid event occurred at the start of the small formula race. Merle Stanfield or some other major Chief was making a safety lap to be sure the course was clear before they turned the light-and-quick ones loose, and stopped to speak with someone inside the oval at Turn One. Someone turned the light-and-quick ones loose while he sat there in his car.

Somehow he knew they started with him on the course, maybe the observer was on the phones and told him. He started screaming at the flagmen at turn one. That was Mike and me. He wanted us to stop the racecars just beginning to get up a head of steam and come into our purview. Stop the cars. Right. Some time ago they had taken the red flag away from turn personnel, presumably as a result of improper use. Now, when there was a proper use situation screaming for a red flag, there was none.

So who lept into the breach? It was I and my SCCA Flag Team official red James Dean look-alike jacket. Can't wear them on the turns because they might confuse the drivers, but OK to fold up and keep them somewhere near.

When major Chief screamed, "Wave the red flag, wave the red flag . . .  (image of rusty wheels turning) . . . Wave something!" I could wave something appropriate, and did. The drivers, not confused at all, responded to my waving red jacket as if it were something they saw every day. They stopped and waited for instructions.

How many of you have stopped a race with your bare hands (and a jacket)?

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At the end of this race day Mike and I headed for Berkeley. Home of U Cal and all that meant in the early 60s. One of what it meant was that Richard Harry Gatley, childhood friend and confidant, had an apartment just off the campus. We found it without much trouble, but after a long, long day. I remember that we went to a Rathskeller, which may be a proper name or a phenomenon, for a beer. Nice catching-up conversation. There was a plumbing trap in the wall next to our table, and it had a frame around it. Cute.

We crashed, as they said in those days, at Richard's pad, sleeping on sofa cushions on the floor, just as I had the year before, on his brothers' floor in south-of-L.A. territory.

Next day I came out to find a parking ticket on the Olds' windshield. Richard's landlord had called in local enforcement on this strange car parked in his yard. Richard forgot to tell him we were family. During our touristy tour of San Francisco, I shredded the ticket and cast it into the bay. Couple months later the summons slash warrrant notice arrived at home. Twenty-five bucks or else.

We were not alone in San Francisco. Fourth of July, remember? We hit a few bars, the Jack London sloping-bar hangout included, caught a Cal Tjader set at that famous jazz place whose name I can't call up (The Blackhawk), but the star of the evening was a neighborhood watering hole in a Polish district. No one is more patriotic than naturalized citizens. They invited us in to what was actually a private party, and wouldn't let us pay for the liquor or the food. It was a red-white-and-blue marvel of a party. Thanks, folks. No, thank you.

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After another few hours on Richard Harry Gatley's floor, Mike and I left the Bayarea via Highway One. You must know that is the scenic drive to end all scenic drives. Runs along the Pacific Ocean from up there to down here. Monterey, Carmel, Big Sur, Santa Barbara . . .  An honest delight, coming or going. We motored right along in that Olds 88, grinning all the way. Until a little after noon, when we got hungry. Stopped at one of the wide spots with a gas pump and a general store. Down to our last dollar, we bought a loaf of French bread and a can of beans, borrowed a can opener and accepted a couple plastic spoons. One of the best meals I ever had.

It will eventually come to pass that I tell the story of driving an Olds load of Xanadudes from UCR to Ensenada and back. Twice. But not yet.