sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 209

It was just before midnight, New Year’s Eve 1976, and a light snow had begun to fall as me and the rest of the crew walked wearily out of the service bay door of Mark & Randy’s Red Owl. We were beat-down, dead-dog tired but were all in a great mood. The supply semi had pulled in a couple hours ahead of schedule that evening, having left home base in Fargo early because another blizzard was on its way, so we’d gotten a head start on Stock Night, unloading the giant trailer and unpacking all the boxes, then filling the freezers and refreshing the coolers and stacking the dry-goods shelves to their very brim, making sure the product was orderly and neatly placed right-side-up with all labels dutifully facing front. I was anxious to get over to Anne’s and welcome in the New Year with a big wet smooch, but decided to stop for a minute to have a cigarette with the guys. And that’s when it happened. I had a great idea. One of the best I thought I’d ever had. The Red Owl Gran Prix.

It all started when our loudmouthed deli manager, Claude, began bragging up the supposed performance capabilities of his puke-green metallic Monte Carlo—the jacked-up one with the chrome Cragars and white-lettered BFGoodrich TAs parked over in the far corner of the lot. Yeah, that one. Well, he was going on and on and on about what a hot machine it was, and after half a cigarette I’d already had enough and threw down the gauntlet. Interrupted him and said I thought he was full of it. Told him I had ten bucks in my pocket that said me and the Beehive’s Gremlin X could beat him and his crappy Chevy twice around the perimeter of the parking lot. Ten bucks. Cash money. Twice around the lot. Now.

He immediately began hemming and hawing. Told me it wouldn’t be a fair fight, his V-8 against my straight six. I countered that whatever he had over me in horsepower and torque I’d make up for with braking and handling. Then he said he’d be willing to take me up on the bet but was worried if things got serious my piece of crap might trade paint with his precious Monte. Told me he didn’t want to risk it. But then I grinned a Cheshire grin. Held out my wrist and showed him the new Timex the folks had gotten me for Christmas. Told him it had a stopwatch feature so we could run the cars separately, against the clock, eliminating all fears of any damage coming to dear Mr. Carlo.

He shot me a dirty look at the jab, then cleared his throat to say something—but before he could, Dan the Man from over in Produce spoke up. Told us he had ten bucks he’d like to throw in if that was cool. Said with a cocky smirk he thought his Mustang II Cobra would take us both easily. Then Glen from the meat department pulled a ten from his pocket. Pointed across the lot to his Dad’s new Celica and smiled at Dan. Said that he’d be able to beat his little Farrah-mobile no sweat. Then Terry pulled out a ten and said he and his old Camaro wanted in on the action. Then Jack joined in. Then Dominic. Then Russell. And thusly, the Red Owl Gran Prix was born.

The parking lot was the perfect venue for the race. It was enormous—the shared lot for five big stores—and was well-lit front to back by bright yellow lamps perched high on the very tops of towering poles that conveniently served as our track markers. We agreed on the layout of a twisty-turny course through the deserted lot, laughing excitedly about avoiding dumpsters and speed bumps and potholes as we talked strategy. Everyone thought it’d be best to go hard at the first corner then brake late, throwing in a quick opposite-lock crank before punching it down the short straight past JCPenny, then making a lazy off-camber turn in front of the Coast to Coast hardware store and finally opening things up again on the long pass back to where we’d started at the Red Owl’s loading dock.

Freddy from the Bakery department wanted in but didn’t have a car to run because he’d gotten a ride to work that night from his cousin, so he stepped up and volunteered to be the official timekeeper. Promised he’d be fair and that was good enough for us, so I handed him the Timex and showed him how the stopwatch function worked. Then we all shook hands on the deal, walked to our respective mounts, climbed in, and fired them up.

Long story short? I lost. Miserably. So did Claude and his Monte. Same for Glen and his Celica and Dan and his Mustang II. The winner? The new kid. Evan. Just in from Colorado. Drove a tricked-out Jeep CJ-5 with four-wheel drive and big meats that handled the icy, snow-packed lot with aplomb. Spanked each of us with seconds to spare and drove away with our cash.

I putted out of the lot in the Gremmy licking my wounds, but all wasn’t lost. Anne and I still had a great New Year’s celebration, cooing and cuddling and canoodling as we watched Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, and I quickly forgot all about the race, never thinking of it again until only recently, when I entered my first real autocross. In my initial run, I hit the first corner and suddenly all the sights and sounds and smells of that cold winter night so long ago in sludgoville came rushing back to me. Made me laugh out loud and inspired me for the rest of the day. Ended up doing better than I’d ever expected, even winning a pretty ribbon for the most improved times over my three official runs. Felt proud of myself and knew that somewhere out there in The Great Beyond, the Oldsmobile Man was smiling.

And now, as I’m typing this, it’s New Years Eve 2025, just before midnight. Precisely forty-nine years since the one and only running of the Red Owl Gran Prix. I’m smiling again at the memory while I sip on my celebratory twin-shot of single-malt and consider my resolutions for the upcoming year. I’m going to try and spend as much time as I can with my two old dogs. Play more acoustic guitar. Learn to speak Spanish. Drink less and exercise more. Finish writing that long-threatened novel of mine. And without fail, I’m going to complete a performance-driving class. Or two. Maybe even three. Because you can keep all those pretty ribbons. In 2026, I’m taking home a trophy.