OUR SOAP BOX RACER
A tale of friendship, determination and making childhood dreams come true
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Bernard, a retired English teacher, has been publishing short stories since the early 90s, including two self-published books. His inspiration has always been the late Alistair Macleod, whose writing motto was, “Tune into your fierceness.” Bernard and his wife Shirley make their home in Charlottetown.
My best pal, Earl, and I had just exited the Capitol Theatre next door to the bank. We had seen our favourite movie cowboy, Wild Bill Elliot, whom we really liked because he always wore his six shooters backwards. But it was not just Elliot’s fast cross-handed draw that had caught our eye. In the earlier news reel was the Akron, Ohio 1952 All-american Soap Box Derby Championship that Tom Lund had just won.
Later, sipping a cherry coke at the drug store’s soda fountain, we decided we didn’t want to be Wild Bill: Tom Lund was our new hero. All we needed was our own soap box racer to enter the annual race from the top of Bishop’s Hill. That was my name for the steep hill beside the rectory where the Bishop of Charlottetown resided.
First, we needed a secret place to work; no one was to see our racer until the right moment. Moreover, the August sun made working in our backyard unbearable, despite the shade from a sprawling red maple draped over our white picket fence.
We got Mom’s permission to descend to our cool, dimly lit cellar with its red clay floor. The only lighting was a bulb and chain hanging from a rafter. A pyramid of spruce slabs beneath the coal hatch scented the damp air and semi-darkness.
Beside the slabs we piled our materials: boards, carriage wheels, axles and rope for steering. Hammers, nails, and saws were already in the cellar. We were ready to construct our soap box racer.
But sometimes actual creation defies design. We had no trouble building the fivefoot long, two-foot wide board chassis. Nailing on the front and rear axles and attaching the four wheels were simple. However, streamlining the front and back of the racer was more of a challenge. Our cart turned out more like an early Humvee with an opening in the top for the driver to crawl in; now we had to get it out of the basement.
We grabbed onto the ends and wobbled our way around the cellar posts to the steps leading up to the kitchen. But that was as far we got. Mom in her apron covered with flour was standing at top, barking, “You’re not gonna get that thing through this door!”
She was right. Weighing a ton, the racer was too wide for the opening into our kitchen. We edged it back down the stairs to the original site.
But this was no time to mope; time for Plan B. We sawed the racer in two just behind the driver’s seat. Next, we carried each piece sideways up the steps, across the kitchen, out the back door and onto the sidewalk.
After reattaching the cart, I was eager to test it as Tom Lund would have done. Jamming my legs under the hood, I lowered myself onto the seat. As Earl pushed me along the sidewalk, the cart gave out a long, slow creak. If not for the board seat, my backside would have scraped along the sidewalk. But we were determined, so we patched the break and headed down the dusty street in the hot August afternoon.
Earl and I used his father’s garage, emptied of two cars. Having learned the mean
ing of “soap box,” we used light dry spruce for the chassis. The frame was made of thin lathes that builders today use to hold insulation in place. We covered the frame with thin cardboard, leaving open the driver’s pit. The rope was attached to a small steering wheel from an abandoned wagon. We tapered the cardboard at the front and back so our racer looked like a miniature kayak. After painting “Lund Two,” on the side we were ready for Bishop’s Hill.
The city police had lined the street with sawhorses behind which waving children and parents stood; they pooled at the finish line.
Five carts stood on the starting line at the top of the hill. The only one that concerned us was Spike Milligan’s cart shaped like a bullet with “Fire Chief’ painted in red on the side. He also sported a cardboard fireman’s hat given to him by his sponsor.
At noon, the crew kicked the blocks from under the wheels: the race for the trophy was on. Spike, lighter than I, took the lead. When we passed the Bishop’s residence I glanced to my right and spotted him on the veranda waving a hand.
Suddenly Spike’s hat blew off. As he tried to catch it, I tucked my head behind the steering wheel and rolled passed Spike. With the other three carts far behind, I swished down the street, passed the screaming fans and crossed over the finish line at a circular BA gasoline sign.
Earl who had been running along the sidewalk rushed up to me, shouting “We did it, Billy!”
To this very day I still display the prize, a miniature soap box racer, on our mantle. Now when I drive down Bishop’s Hill, I still wonder how we won. Was it the Bishop raising his hand to bless us? Was it the cheering fans, or simply gravity capitalizing on the shape and weight of our car? But one attitude for certain lasted: never give up. This lesson has taken me through school, university, teaching and, indeed, the derby of life.