Derby racers. He would start in late winter, when in a scary tantrum. Generally, he worked alone. snow still covered the ground outside, transforming Kevin’s labors were part of a long tradition. a small stack of lumber and paper sacks of hard- Started by Chevrolet in 1934, the All-American Soap ware into a teen-sized, gravity-propelled vehicle. Box Derby is known as the “World’s Gravity Grand
Balancing the shell of the car across two sawhorses, Prix,” and in my brother’s day, it was open only to he built each the same way: a pine plank floorboard boys between 11 and 16 years of age. Its rules were supported several plywood bulkheads, to which he strict. Cars couldn’t exceed 80 inches in length or anchored Masonite sides and a top. Each car ran on 250 pounds, including the driver, and materials four red-rimmed Soap Box Derby wheels, controlled couldn’t cost more than $40. Contestants built their by a simple cable steering system and foot-pedal own cars; parents could offer advice — Kevin could drag brake. Each was painted and then lettered with check with Dad on how to laminate the nosepiece Kevin’s name, number, and sponsor logo
(Weicker Moving and
Storage). And each one got faster.
Despite their similarities, it was the fundamentals that were really the only thing Kevin’s cars had in common. The first two
(green and orange) were
simple sit-down models; the next two, painted the or shim the axles (as I did, seven years later) — but
same bronze color as Weicker’s moving vans, were the regs specifically forbade adult intervention.
long, elegant, lie-back cars with a rear headrest that Each boy raced in a local competition (ours was in
supported my brother’s head. His bright blue eyes Boulder, on Lehigh Street Hill, around July 4th), and
were barely visible from beneath the white regulation the local winner went to Akron, Ohio, to compete in
Derby helmet. the national championship. Akron winners received
Leaning against the doorway, I am watching a trophy, a $7,500 college scholarship, and a white
him work: the aroma of fresh sawdust mixes with champion’s jacket that, if I shut my eyes, I can almost
hot electric motor smells of the drill and jigsaw, picture Kevin wearing.
whiffs of plastic wood, and the rubbery tang of new Each year, his cars got better. The last — in 1972,
wheels. The radio segues from Jerry Reed’s “Amos when he was 16 — was magnificent. It was a sleek,
Moses” into Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song”: teardrop-shaped stiletto with meticulously trued
We come from the land of the ice and snow wheels, a reverse-hinged rear brake, and a steering
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow. system that glided gracefully in its guides. Though his And the gentle screek screek of Kevin’s file or keyhole early racers were amateurish and hand-spray-painted, saw drowns out the muffled voices coming from this one was elegant and sophisticated, with steel upstairs. He is 14; I am 7. I idolize him, of course, and sleeves for cables, a carpeted floorboard, and four even though he ignores me as he rasps an axle tree airbrushed coats of copper auto body paint applied into an aerodynamic shape, he probably secretly inside a newspaper-lined cubicle. Most boys Kevin’s enjoys having me down here with him. age couldn’t have built it.
After dinner, Dad would look in on him, too, but At 16, Kevin was heading toward trouble. He by then the relationship between the two of them already had his learner’s permit and had begun had become tempestuous. With his stoic patience, associating with boys who drove real cars, smoked my father could never — would never — understand Winstons, and hung out in his attic room, laughing Kevin’s propensity for frustration and impulsive and talking and listening to what would someday anger. A frozen bolt or misdrilled hole could send be called Classic Rock. Sometimes they would him into a furious rage, sabotaging many days’ work disappear for a while in Carl Kleveno’s blue Duster,
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