For the love of God, PLEASE quit doing burnouts — or acting like an idiot, in general — when leaving any one of the following: Cars and Coffee, Cruise-Ins, Car Meets, Car Shows, etc. I’m sorry, but it has to be said.
There is a time and place for a burnout. Let me list a few: the drag strip, a burnout competition, a rural road, even your driveway if it’s big enough, and your neighbors don’t care! But, please people; quit being a jackass trying to show off leaving organized events. Before you dismiss me as some grumpy old man who doesn’t like to have fun, do me the courtesy of listening to what I say. This is important for us all if we want to keep having these events!
Young and Dumb
Shortly after we dropped a 350 in my ‘55 Chevy, as 16-year old, I was young and dumb but overall a pretty good kid. I was pretty responsible, rarely got into trouble, and never anything serious. When I was 15, my dad made a deal with me to buy me a fixer-upper car, but I had to pay for the gas and insurance. So, I got a job as soon as I could and started saving money. Shortly before my 16th birthday, we found the ‘55 in the AutoTrader for $1,500.
I had been working at a Kroger grocery store sacking groceries in my suburb of Memphis — never missed a shift, and never late — two things my dad said would park the car. I had been working there for almost a year when we moved locations to a brand-new, state-of-the-art storefront that anchored a strip mall. They had a HUGE grand opening with all the pomp and circumstance fit for such a new facility. I think the mayor even did the ribbon cutting.
The parking lot had the freshest, blackest tarmac I had ever seen. There were sparkling white parking lines and vibrant yellow lane dividers. And, yes, for some reason it was calling my name!
The parking lot had the freshest, blackest tarmac I had ever seen. There were sparkling white parking lines and vibrant yellow lane dividers. And, yes, for some reason it was calling my name!
The Burnout
At the end of my shift at 10:00 pm on that opening day, I clocked out and headed for the ‘55 parked way in the back of the lot and fired it up. Built by RHS, the small-block was stout for a street car, capable of a 12-second pass. I had a Muncie M-22 “Rock Crusher” four-speed and a 12-bolt packed with 4.56:1 gears in the rear. The brushed Centerline wheels were wrapped with brand-new 295/50R15 BF Goodrich G-Force radials. You see where this is going . . .
I didn’t plan anything at the time, but as I sat there letting the engine warm-up, that tarmac started speaking to me. A group of my co-workers was standing outside the door talking about the day’s events, smoking cigarettes, and winding down from the grueling onslaught of first-day customers. As I started toward the front of the lot, one of them gave me the universal sign for “do a burnout.”
That was all the impetus I needed. As I approached the corner of the building, I pushed the clutch in, threw it in first, and stomped the loud pedal. The posi-unit locked in, and I laid two of the prettiest, straightest, blackest stripes anyone has ever seen! They went the entire length of the store, and then some! As I looked in my rearview mirror, I could see nothing but white fog. That is until I got to the main road to turn left toward home and saw a figure emerge from the lifting cloud. It was the general manager! He had been standing at the customer service counter saying goodbye to the regional manager, who came in town for the festivities. Surely, he didn’t know it was me, right?
WRONG! As I turned onto the main road, I could tell he wasn’t happy. My legs, which were already shaking from doing something I don’t usually do, started shaking even worse. I could barely push the clutch in as I made the ten-minute drive home. It was now about 10:30 pm as I walked in the backdoor to the house. My father sat in the living room, watching the end of the news, and talking on the phone. Seconds after I closed the door, the TV went off, he hung up the phone, and panic struck my entire body.
Never Shit Where You Eat
My dad called me over to sit down. Surely he didn’t know about the burnout, did he? Oh, yes, he did! The general manager had stormed back inside the store and immediately called the house and explained to my father what I had just done to his brand-new baby. As I sat down, my dad let me have it up one side and down the other. I don’t remember everything he said, but I remember this one line: “NEVER SHIT WHERE YOU EAT!”
It has stuck with me ever since. My dad and the manager had struck a deal that I would come back to the store immediately to clean up the rubber. After a thorough ass-chewing from my dad, I cleaned up my tears and hopped back in the car to head back up to Kroger. It was now around 11:00 pm. On the way there, I was trying to think of how the hell I was going to clean up 300 feet of burnout.
When I arrived, all of the store lights were off except the ones across the check-out lanes. Standing in the soft glow coming through the windows was the GM — a broom in one hand, a bottle of bleach in the other, and a bucket at his feet. He told me I had my dad to thank because he was going to fire me. My only instructions were there better not be anything left when he got there in the morning, or he would go through with his plan.
The Cleanup
It was about 11:45 pm when I started. The GM left me three bottles of bleach and the mop bucket filled with water. He went inside, turned off the remaining lights, set the alarm, and locked the front door. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to clean up burnout marks with water, bleach, and a broom before . . . but I can tell you, it’s not easy! It might as well be a toothbrush; it took FOREVER. I had no lighting other than the Kroger sign.
It was July or August in Memphis, Tennessee, so it was probably still in the upper-80s with about 80% humidity. It was utterly miserable. I was eaten alive by mosquitos, and I completely sweat through my clothes. Even as a super-fit, everyday-soccer-playing, 16-year-old, I thought I was going to die on that tarmac within the first hour. My back ached so bad I couldn’t stand up straight. My hands were bloody with blisters, and I had no water to drink.
But I scrubbed, and I scrubbed, and I scrubbed some more. Slowly but surely, I started making some headway and figured out the right mix of bleach and water to get the rubber up and out of the concrete. Finally, at 3:35 am (I remember the time to this day!), I was finally finished. Halleluja! I set the broom and bucket next to the front door and limped back to my car. I defeatedly drove back home and fell on top of my bed — didn’t even shower, didn’t even take my sweat-stained clothes off, and didn’t even turn off the light! I was out before my head hit the pillow!
The Burnout Aftermath
My only saving grace was that it was a weekend and I didn’t have school the next day. Of course, that wasn’t the end of it for me; I still had to talk to my dad. When I finally awoke the next day, I could barely move my hands but struggled into the shower. When the soap hit my hands, I had all I could do to keep from screaming out in sheer pain. Once I got downstairs, my father was waiting. Surprisingly, he was calm and explained to me again why “we don’t shit where we eat,” and told me I would be grounded for a month. I could not use the car or leave the house except to go to work.
I learned a valuable lesson. Even today, I think it was a little extreme for a first offense. Still, I definitely learned there is a time and a place for everything, and business places are not proper places to do burnouts. And, certainly not crowded places of business!
Quit Doing Burnouts Leaving
This whole long story is solely to ask you to quit doing burnouts while leaving events. I got lucky! No one was hurt, no one was injured, and the business didn’t get in trouble because of my antics. But you might not be so lucky. All for what? To show off to your friends and onlookers? We’ve all been there; even I slip up every now and then.
I know most people at the cruise-ins and car shows who own collector cars are shaking their heads or cussing you when you leave like a moron. They know the consequences involved if you screw up or a part fails. They know you are risking having the event shut down. Other businesses don’t want to be associated with the shenanigans that always end up happening at the end of the night.
We’ve all seen the videos of “insert car type here” crashing outside the gates of a cruise-in. Instead of looking cool while showing off, you’ve just become an internet sensation for something stupid. Or worse, you destroy your car or someone else’s AND are an internet star. Or worse still, you now sit in jail for vehicular homicide because you couldn’t contain yourself for ten seconds.
If you think it can’t happen to you, think again. Eleven years ago, this happened in Selmer, Tennessee, just outside of my hometown of Memphis, and it rocked everyone’s world. This is why it scares the shit out of me when I see people doing burnouts with streets lined with people.
I know you are proud of the effort you put into your car and its horsepower (or for some of you, lack thereof). I am proud for you! I know the time and effort it takes to build a car to a high caliber. But please, quit ruining the show for the rest of us who want to enjoy our hobby and not be associated with stupidity. Our hot-rodding forefathers worked long and hard to erase the stigma associated with being a hot rodder. Doing a burnout leaving a cruise-in doesn’t make you a hero — it makes you selfish. You are not thinking about the bigger picture, you are only thinking about your ten seconds of fame. Don’t let it be your ten seconds of infamy.
So, do like your momma taught you — act like you’ve been there before. And do like my dad says, never shit where you eat, or you’re going to be eating a sandwich you really don’t want to be eating. Take it from me, I ate one that fateful night in the parking lot, and it doesn’t taste so good.
