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HardScrabble
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Since his name came up in the greatest driver debate, I though ya'll might enjoy a little tale on the lighter side. Found this one over at the BGNRacing site; Rick Houston,btw, covers the BGN series for Winston Cup Scene and also wrote the book "Second to None - History of the NASCAR Busch Series"
Adventures In Racing … Otherwise Known As Dinner At Sam Ard’s House
By Rick Houston
Maybe I should’ve been a race car driver, because, hey, just a few days ago, I stayed on the bumper of one of the best who ever lived.
Maybe not. I’d better stick with what works, or pays the bills, at the very least.
There’s evidently no easy way to get to Sam Ard’s house in Pamplico, S.C. Ask Sam for directions, and he’ll give you a couple of different ways before settling on a third. No, no, no, his wife, Jo, will fuss. This other way’s much better, much easier.
Rick, don’t listen to them, their son, Robert, a truck racer at Myrtle Beach, will say. Go this way. Yeah, right. I do that, and I’ll wind up lost in Georgia.
As a result, the solution of meeting Sam near my motel in Florence and simply following him the 25 miles or so to his house has become customary. I’m on my own on the way back … heaven help me. Usually, Sam takes a fairly direct approach, but not this time. No way. Afterward, he explains it was to miss traffic.
OK, thanks for the information.
Almost immediately, Sam turns off my more familiar route. I know I’m really in trouble when we cut through a grocery store parking lot at a brisk pace. Sam narrowly avoids a minivan, which I nearly T-bone. Sorry, lady, I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was going and had to keep up with Sam. Still, I don’t much blame you for the dirty looks and mouthed words.
Although I’d prefer if you left my momma out of it.
Off we went, through the country, me trailing Sam, his grandson, Christian, and their dog. Nope. Dog ain’t a good enough description for this creature. This thing is a cross between a moose, a Clydesdale horse and a rhinocerous, with 10 parts pit bull thrown in for good measure. Christian plays with the creature like it’s a stuffed animal, and the whole family insists the critter’s harmless. Uh-huh. Right.
Later that night, after Jo’s delicious spaghetti dinner, I keep my distance. I don’t want my arm to be Fluffy’s dessert.
Sam passes a slower car on the two-lane road, and I have to, as well. I can’t get lost out here, especially after we pass the prison. Sam roars around another car. I grip the steering wheel and here I go too, hoping like the dickens there’s nothing coming. Baaaaaaaannnnnzzzzzzaaaaaiii!!!!!
We finally turn onto what I know is Sam’s road, but it’s obviously an end that I don’t yet know. Here we go again, getting back up to speed. Sam gets behind another car, with me trailing close behind. Suddenly, all heck breaks loose. The first car hits a deer carcass laying in the road, sending it back to Sam, who also runs over it.
I’d never hit a deer before. Until now.
I swerve, but still hit what’s left. My right side tires are off the road, the wheel’s jerking around in my hands and Sam’s not stopping. The pucker factor has kicked in big time, but I keep my foot on the gas and hope there’s not been any damage to the company car I’m driving.
Geez … how would I have explained that one, if there had been damage?
Well, uh, the Winston Cup Scene Dodge Intrepid was running good until I got to racing the 00, Sam Ard. I got a little loose, had the air taken off my spoiler and got into a deer in the road. Those deer have all the downforce advantages, you know.
A couple of minutes later, we finally pull into the Ards’ driveway, safe and … well … relatively sound. I get out of my car and walk around it, doing an inspection just like a real live race car driver who’s just been in an accident. There’s nothing wrong with Sam’s car or mine, thank goodness. Wish I could’ve said the same about my nerves.
I say something to Sam about going around his elbow to get to his … you get the picture, and that’s when he tells me about saving me from the horrors of traffic in Florence, S.C. We’re two racers, telling war stories, just after the heat of battle.
Not quite. I’m just a lowly journalist who’s found out, first-hand, what it was like to be a Busch Series driver between 1982 and 1984, staring at Sam Ard’s rear bumper and getting smoked
Adventures In Racing … Otherwise Known As Dinner At Sam Ard’s House
By Rick Houston
Maybe I should’ve been a race car driver, because, hey, just a few days ago, I stayed on the bumper of one of the best who ever lived.
Maybe not. I’d better stick with what works, or pays the bills, at the very least.
There’s evidently no easy way to get to Sam Ard’s house in Pamplico, S.C. Ask Sam for directions, and he’ll give you a couple of different ways before settling on a third. No, no, no, his wife, Jo, will fuss. This other way’s much better, much easier.
Rick, don’t listen to them, their son, Robert, a truck racer at Myrtle Beach, will say. Go this way. Yeah, right. I do that, and I’ll wind up lost in Georgia.
As a result, the solution of meeting Sam near my motel in Florence and simply following him the 25 miles or so to his house has become customary. I’m on my own on the way back … heaven help me. Usually, Sam takes a fairly direct approach, but not this time. No way. Afterward, he explains it was to miss traffic.
OK, thanks for the information.
Almost immediately, Sam turns off my more familiar route. I know I’m really in trouble when we cut through a grocery store parking lot at a brisk pace. Sam narrowly avoids a minivan, which I nearly T-bone. Sorry, lady, I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was going and had to keep up with Sam. Still, I don’t much blame you for the dirty looks and mouthed words.
Although I’d prefer if you left my momma out of it.
Off we went, through the country, me trailing Sam, his grandson, Christian, and their dog. Nope. Dog ain’t a good enough description for this creature. This thing is a cross between a moose, a Clydesdale horse and a rhinocerous, with 10 parts pit bull thrown in for good measure. Christian plays with the creature like it’s a stuffed animal, and the whole family insists the critter’s harmless. Uh-huh. Right.
Later that night, after Jo’s delicious spaghetti dinner, I keep my distance. I don’t want my arm to be Fluffy’s dessert.
Sam passes a slower car on the two-lane road, and I have to, as well. I can’t get lost out here, especially after we pass the prison. Sam roars around another car. I grip the steering wheel and here I go too, hoping like the dickens there’s nothing coming. Baaaaaaaannnnnzzzzzzaaaaaiii!!!!!
We finally turn onto what I know is Sam’s road, but it’s obviously an end that I don’t yet know. Here we go again, getting back up to speed. Sam gets behind another car, with me trailing close behind. Suddenly, all heck breaks loose. The first car hits a deer carcass laying in the road, sending it back to Sam, who also runs over it.
I’d never hit a deer before. Until now.
I swerve, but still hit what’s left. My right side tires are off the road, the wheel’s jerking around in my hands and Sam’s not stopping. The pucker factor has kicked in big time, but I keep my foot on the gas and hope there’s not been any damage to the company car I’m driving.
Geez … how would I have explained that one, if there had been damage?
Well, uh, the Winston Cup Scene Dodge Intrepid was running good until I got to racing the 00, Sam Ard. I got a little loose, had the air taken off my spoiler and got into a deer in the road. Those deer have all the downforce advantages, you know.
A couple of minutes later, we finally pull into the Ards’ driveway, safe and … well … relatively sound. I get out of my car and walk around it, doing an inspection just like a real live race car driver who’s just been in an accident. There’s nothing wrong with Sam’s car or mine, thank goodness. Wish I could’ve said the same about my nerves.
I say something to Sam about going around his elbow to get to his … you get the picture, and that’s when he tells me about saving me from the horrors of traffic in Florence, S.C. We’re two racers, telling war stories, just after the heat of battle.
Not quite. I’m just a lowly journalist who’s found out, first-hand, what it was like to be a Busch Series driver between 1982 and 1984, staring at Sam Ard’s rear bumper and getting smoked
