Illustration by Gianna MeolaCar and Driver
From the December 2021 issue of Car and Driver.
You will never get better until you realize you’re not good,” Frank Hawley said. We were in Woodburn, Oregon, and I was one of a dozen students in Hawley’s basic NHRA licensing course. The two-day program sends graduates home with the paperwork and proven runs needed to qualify for a license permitting them to drive cars as quick as 7.5 seconds in the quarter-mile. Hawley has been teaching both budding race-car drivers and professionals how to get down a drag strip for more than 35 years. He started the drag-racing school just as his successful ride in the Chi-Town Hustler nitro Funny Car—he won two world championships—was coming to a close. “I thought a school might be a cool thing to do,” he said. At the time, there were only road-racing schools; nobody had thought to teach drag racing.
The first version of the school put students in a supercharged, alcohol-burning Funny Car. “I didn’t think it’d be very difficult. But it turned out to be just totally disastrous,” Hawley said. The cars were too quick and too sensitive for beginners. The naturally aspirated big-block Chevy machines they use now for the entry-level class are less nerve-racking for everyone involved. Many of Hawley’s students go on to faster cars and careers in drag racing—five 2019 NHRA champs were graduates—but the courses are open to people who’ve never raced.
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Everyone in my class had racing experience. Mike, getting back into competition after two years off, had just purchased two dragsters. Tim raced both a vintage front-engine rail and a sprint car. Tanner crewed a nitro dragster. Dave had just bought a nine-second Dodge Dart. Margaret and her husband, Ken, ran sportsman races at the track where we were taking classes. Several students had victories back home, and we all had one thing in common: We were doing a terrible job. Not only could we not line the cars up straight, launch them at full throttle, or correctly identify where we were on the track, but we couldn’t even recognize what we couldn’t do. We couldn’t admit we weren’t good.
At least not at first. We’d each get a turn, half of us in needle-sharp dragsters and half in fourth-gen Pontiac Firebirds. We started with 200-foot launches just to get a feel for what it’s like to be shot out of a cannon at the release of a button. Then we’d troop upstairs, settle into our seats, and squirm uncomfortably as we were forced to confront our mistakes. Each run had been recorded and was played back in front of the class while the patient but unforgiving Hawley encouraged us to look honestly at our work.
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You can imagine how that went in a room full of race-car drivers. “The line lock didn’t work right” was the excuse when Hawley asked about a weak-sauce burnout. “Seemed to work fine for the next guy,” Hawley said. “The car kept wanting to go left” was another’s explanation. Hawley looked out the window. “So, the car has an opinion,” he said. “I’ll have one of the crew talk to it, tell it to stop doing that.” My classmate looked sheepish. “I might be pulling on the wheel when I launch,” he said.
Some took longer than others, but eventually everyone came to grips with something they needed to work on. The video reviews became less painful as our trips down track began looking less like bananas and more like rocket ships. “Nice run,” we finally heard Hawley say. “My goal with the class is not to make you perfect,” Hawley said. “You need more practice for that. That is what writes the programs in your brains, moves the thoughts from conscious to unconscious. My goal is just to teach you enough that you don’t look goofy. At least, not on track.” And then he signed off on my license. I’m officially not goofy. At least, not on track.
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