10-21 Page 21

Here I sit, hands above the keyboard, poised to relay some kind of wordage to entertain, amuse and maybe make readers go “meh.” I like to cover all the bases.

It took three months, but I was able to make the trek to one of my favored speed ovals, Brown County Speedway in Aberdeen, SD, on the first Friday of August. Originally, I had planned to take in the opener, as I have a somewhat vested interest in a certain WISSOTA Street Stocker.

A few years back, when I was younger and still not the wiser, I purchased a never raced, roughly 70 percent 1957 Chevy race car from a feller way up in Montana — that part of Montana where you might still find glaciers and nothing but paved ovals.

Since I obsess over Tri-5 anythings, it was a must-have purchase for me. Once in my possession, the mechanic and fabricator in me just couldn’t get it right. And now I know why. It was a sign. This car was destined for a greater purpose than becoming more or less Twilight Drive yard art.

A call from Ferlin Sheridan a few years earlier put me on a quest to find, in case you can’t guess, a ’57 Chevy body for a very impressive idea. Turns out, ’57 Chevy bodies are apparently on the endangered list, as even the most clapped-out remnants were at prices stark enough to cause cardiac harm. “You want that much…for that?”

Be that what it may, Ferlin had a firm deadline, and with good reason. To honor his father’s memory, he wanted to skin his existing race car with a ’57 body and sign it up like his dad’s entry into the world of motorsports, 50 years earlier (that being 1975, if you’re math challenged as I am).

A price on my unfinished project was accepted and we met up in Pierre to, ignore the blatant drama, make a dream a reality. He got the whole mess of a car, though only the stitched together outer sheet metal was required.

A couple of well-known car enthusiasts from nearby Redfield were either dragged kicking and screaming or gleefully volunteered, to turn this sow’s ear into something a tough guy like Ferlin can get a bit mushy about. Twins Robin and Robert Schmitt, both excellent wheelmen in their own right, pumped hours of blood, sweat and determination into Ferlin’s dream.

“This has been one of the few things that I’ve ever been emotional about,” he states with more than a hint of wanderlust. “Aside from my children and grandchildren, it’s reliving my fondest memories with Dad, when it was him and me, about 5 years old, hanging around, working on that race car.

“My real education started with those tools in my hand. And what a teacher I had!”

The elder Sheridan didn’t get to race as long as he might have liked to. “It was a different world then; we ate before we raced. Period.”

With rumbling motors and fast cars teaming around the family farm in Mellette, a farming community a mere 20-minute trip south from Aberdeen (or 10 if your last name is Sheridan), those innocent years primed him and his older brother Sheldon for speed passions.

Sheldon turned hundreds of laps at BCS, grabbing a fair share of checkered flag notifications and a solid fan base. When I was more of a wanderer than I am now, Sheldon always greeted me with a big hello, an icy cold beverage and warm conversation, which encompassed more than just dirt track racing — it always felt like an invitation to the family.

Cancer took Sheldon some 10 to 12 years ago, yet his aura shines brightly around those he left behind, especially kin. So much so, he “chose 37 for number, as it was his birthdate. The ‘W’ is for his middle name, Walter.”

Brother Verdelle also rounded corners on the 3/8ths-miler for a while, as did his son Mike. Sheldon’s son Bradley raced Streeters and Modifieds for several years, using the number 009, a nod to both his grandfather and dad.

Upon the car’s introduction to the 2025 racing season, it immediately became a local sensation, going as far as to win the pre-season car show. “I didn’t believe it at first,” he says, still a bit stung by the surprise. “It’s like hitting the lottery without buying a ticket, really.”

Wherever he and Beverly (an impassioned nod to his late mother) turn up trackside, both are quite the attention hogs. “I’ve gotten tweets and comments from the likes of Ricky Thornton Jr. and Sprint Car drivers. It’s crazy!”

Early season steering issues plagued every turn, you might say. “It wasn’t until Ron Anderson (parts guy, racer, relic) got involved did it begin to behave,” he says. “The push was every week, no matter what we tried. After he waved his magic wand, I could drive the darned thing. I am forever grateful.”

A feature win or two would be just a cherry on top of a grateful racer, something that still is a possibility. “Every driver wants to win,” he knows. “Just knowing Dad is with me is a personal win.”

Unbeknownst to me at the time, or to anyone, that night proved to be Terry Voeltz’s last night as a spectator. He didn’t look like the Terry I’d known for 30 some years; instead frail, tired. Spent. Not the talkative, knowledgeable commander of the Aberdeen dirt scene.

He knew his game. It’s arguable he was one of the driving forces who raised the WISSOTA banner higher than it ever had, drawing the dollars and the stars together for events rarely seen in the Midwest.

We all live with that final checkered flag looming at the flagstand, something you become more aware of as you get older. Life’s biggest mystery is the when, not the if. Until that time, we have to keep Terry’s spirit in sight: race each lap hard, fair, both hands on the wheel and always on the gas.

It was good to know you, sir.

One of the best promotional tools out there is an event called “Kids’ Night.” I couldn’t believe the amount of interest pouring from the emptying stands prior to race time, race fans of all sizes and ages mingling among an entirely race car covered front stretch. When I was a young fan, this would have been as close to heaven I could have ever been.

A surprise was to find a pair of Adams’ pitside — far from their Wisconsin home. Points chaser Blake Adams and his dad Buzzy (I’m sure you’ve heard of him at some point) explained there were no close venues to run both his WISSOTA Modified and Midwest Modified.

Not willing to sit out a perfectly good night to pad his point totals, they loaded up and headed west. I didn’t get a chance to do a lot of chatting, as they were trying desperately to get a handle on one of the car’s handling.

I met both at Sheridan Speedway last summer for a big race (that I had to miss this year, details to be revealed later), which didn’t turn out favorably. I won’t get into what was what, as it is old news and everything has since been calmed.

My fondest memories of semi-regular trips deep into WISSOTA country’s eastern edge what seems like eons ago, involve sharing certain beverages and stories with Buzzy, long before Blake donned his first set of Nomex gear.

Tonight, both were, as always, congenial, even when fighting a mechanical foe.

Alex Guthmiller is likely wanting to forget his return to oval battles, his night was fraught with issues that may have had a lesser man plant C4 on the undercarriage and press the ignite button with reckless abandon.

Still, it was good see this wheelman getting back to it.

Since the racing itself has already been covered among these pages, all I can add is hats off to crew, drivers and pit crew members for a job well done. Sure, it got a bit dusty at times, but with the way the weather has beaten every surface without mercy this year, it was still a great night to be at the track.

Since it seems like an eternity ago when I started writing this, I’ll pause my reflections of the year until I get the urge to spill more words unto you.

In closing, I do need to wish Laine Schwehr a steady recovery. During a heat race he was dominating during the 54th annual Stampede on his home turf in Jamestown, ND, his No. 56 WISSOTA Late Model bounced into a violent series of high flying revolutions right in front of me.

The agony of awaiting word of his condition only deepened as safety crews danced about, carefully removing the obviously injured driver from his crumpled machine. Best news, he was talking. What he was saying, must have been bad.

I’m not privy to what was exchanged between him and his rescuers, all I knew is he hurt. I think everyone in the crowd found a prayer for him; I know I did. There’s a lot of seasons left in the young man, I pray this is just a bump in the road.