Today’s NASCAR is a family sport with 75 million loyal fans, which is growing bigger and more mainstream by the day. Part Disney, part Vegas, part Barnum & Bailey, NASCAR is also a multibillion-dollar business and a cultural phenomenon that transcends geography, class, and gender. But dark secrets lurk in NASCAR’s past.
Driving with the Devil uncovers for the first time the true story behind NASCAR’s distant, moonshine-fueled origins and paints a rich portrait of the colorful men who created it. Long before the sport of stock-car racing even existed, young men in the rural, Depression-wracked South had figured out that cars and speed were tickets to a better life. With few options beyond the farm or factory, the best chance of escape was running moonshine. Bootlegging offered speed, adventure, and wads of cash—if the drivers survived. Driving with the Devil is the story of bootleggers whose empires grew during Prohibition and continued to thrive well after Repeal, and of drivers who thundered down dusty back roads with moonshine deliveries, deftly outrunning federal agents. The car of choice was the Ford V-8, the hottest car of the 1930s, and ace mechanics tinkered with them until they could fly across mountain roads at 100 miles an hour.
After fighting in World War II, moonshiners transferred their skills to the rough, red-dirt racetracks of Dixie, and a national sport was born. In this dynamic era (1930s and ’40s), three men with a passion for Ford V-8s—convicted criminal Ray Parks, foul-mouthed mechanic Red Vogt, and crippled war veteran Red Byron, NASCAR’s first champion—emerged as the first stock car “team.” Theirs is the violent, poignant story of how moonshine and fast cars merged to create a new sport for the South to call its own.
Driving with the Devil is a fascinating look at the well-hidden historical connection between whiskey running and stock-car racing. NASCAR histories will tell you who led every lap of every race since the first official race in 1948. Driving with the Devil goes deeper to bring you the excitement, passion, crime, and death-defying feats of the wild, early days that NASCAR has carefully hidden from public view. In the tradition of Laura Hillenbrand’s Seabiscuit, this tale not only reveals a bygone era of a beloved sport, but also the character of the country at a moment in time.
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Driving with the Devil
Southern Moonshine, Detroit Wheels, and the Birth of NASCAR
By Neal Thompson
Copyright © 2006
All right reserved.
Tell about the South. What's it like there?
Why do they live there? Why do they live at all?
"NASCAR is no longer a southern sport"
The old man has seen a lot. Sometimes too much. Police in his rearview mirror.
The inside of jail cells. Friends and family lowered into the ground. Race cars
carving deadly paths into crowds. He's seen stacks of money, too-some coming,
Those visions, those memories, all link into a story. The real story.
The old man sits behind his orderly desk sipping a Coke, almost as if he's
waiting for someone to come through the door and ask, "Tell me what it was
like." It is the start of the twenty-first century, but he is dressed in the
style of an earlier era: white shirt and narrow black tie, a gray jacket and
felt fedora on a nearby hook-the same uniform he's worn since FDR's first term,
except for summers, when the fedora is swapped for a straw boater. Raymond Parks
is a creature of habit. He doesn't need to be here each day. With moonshining
profits earned as a teen, he bought liquor stores, then vending machines, which
funded real estate deals and other sources of income (some legal, some not
quite). Far from his squalid youth, Parks is worth plenty, morethan he could
have imagined. He's sold off most of his empire-the houses, the land, the
nightclubs, the vending machines, and all of his liquor stores except one.
Still, he arrives each morning to putter around the office, make phone calls,
check his accounts.
Next door, customers trickle into the one package store Parks has kept, the one
he's owned for two-thirds of a century. They buy flasks of Jack Daniels and
fifths of Wild Turkey from a brother-in-law who has worked for Parks since World
War II. Even now, it's an ironic business for a teetotaler who-as a so-called
moonshine "baron" and "kingpin"-used to make, deliver, and profit nicely from
illegal corn whiskey. Outside, crews of Georgia road workers jackhammer into his
parking lot, part of a road-widening project that brings Atlanta's Northside
Avenue closer to the bespectacled old man's front door each day.
Parks is ninety-one, though he looks two decades younger. In his twilight years,
this office has become a sanctuary and the place he goes to rummage through the
past. The room contains the secrets of NASCAR's origins. On cluttered walls and
shelves are the dinged-up and tarnished trophies and loving cups, the yellowed
newspaper articles, the vivid black-and-white photographs of men and machines,
of crowds and crack-ups, which tell part of the story of how NASCAR came to be.
Take a look: one of Parks's drivers is balanced impossibly on two right wheels
in the north turn of the old Beach-and-Road course at Daytona; the wizard
mechanic who honed his skills juicing up whiskey cars poses on the fender of a
1939 Ford V-8 coupe outside his "24-Hour" garage, wearing his trademark white
T-shirt, white pants, and white socks; a driver stands next to his race car in
front of Parks's office / liquor store in 1948, a dozen trophies lined up before
him and Miss Atlanta smiling at his side.
Parks is proud of the recent photos, too. It took many years for him to return
to the sport he abandoned in 1952. When he did, NASCAR stars such as Dale
Earnhardt-his arm affectionately around Parks's shoulder-embraced him as their
sport's unsung pioneer.
There were good reasons he'd left the sport a half century earlier. That world
contained dark secrets like prison and murder, greed and betrayal, the frequent
maiming of friends and colleagues, their innocent fans, and the violent death of
a young child. Parks keeps a few mementos from that chapter of the NASCAR story
tucked neatly inside thick black photo albums, home also to faded pictures of
whiskey stills, war-ravaged German cities, and a sheet-draped corpse being
loaded into a hearse.
The corpse had been Parks's cousin and stock car racing's first true star. He
had been like a son to Parks. The day after his greatest racing victory, just as
his sport was about to take off, he died. As usual, moonshine was to blame.
* * *
Except for Violet-the most beautiful of his five wives, whom he married a decade
ago at the age of eighty-Parks is often alone now. He survived his previous
wives and his lone son. He outlived all the racers whose careers he launched,
including his friend and fellow war veteran Red Byron, who, despite a leg full
of Japanese shrapnel, became NASCAR's first champion. He outlived Bill France,
too, his wily friend who presided dictator-like over NASCAR's first quarter
century. A handful of racers from the 1940s and '50s are still kicking around,
but none of the major players from those seminal, post-Depression days before
there was a NASCAR. Even Dale Earnhardt, the man who brought NASCAR to the
masses, is gone, killed at Daytona in 2001.
After abruptly leaving the sport in 1952, Parks watched in awe as NASCAR evolved
into something that was unthinkable back in those uneasy years before and after
World War II. In the late 1930s, at dusty red-dirt tracks, a victor would be
lucky to take home $300 for a win-if the promoter didn't run off with the purse.
Now, a single NASCAR racing tire costs more than $300, and a win on any given
Sunday is worth half a million.
Over the years, a few hard-core fans, amateur historians, or magazine writers
have tracked Parks down. They stop by to scan his photographs, to tap into his
memories of the rowdy races on red-clay tracks, the guns and women and
fistfights and white liquor, the days before NASCAR existed. Most days, he works
in his office alone, or with Violet by his side. He is the sole living keeper of
NASCAR's true history, but his memory is fading, and Violet frets about that. In
his tenth decade, Parks-the ex-felon, the war veteran, the self-made
millionaire and philanthropist-has finally begun to slow down.
The "sport" that Parks helped create became a multibillion-dollar industry. It
evolved from rural, workingman's domain into an attraction-often an
obsession-for eighty million loyal fans. Today's NASCAR, still owned by a single
family, is a phenomenon, a churning moneymaker-equal parts Disney, Vegas, and
Ringling Brothers-and the second most popular sport in America, with races that
regularly attract two hundred thousand spectators. No longer a second-tier event
on ESPN2, races are now televised nationally on NBC, TNT, and FOX and in 2007
will begin airing on ABC, ESPN, and other networks, part of a TV contract worth
nearly $5 billion.
With the help of sophisticated merchandising, marketing, and soaring corporate
sponsorship, NASCAR continues growing beyond the South, faster than ever,
becoming more mainstream by the day. NASCAR's red-white-and-blue logo is
splashed on cereal boxes in supermarket aisles, on magazine covers, beer cans,
clothing, even leather recliners. Try driving any major highway, even in the
Northeast, without seeing NASCAR devotions glued to bumpers. Recent additions to
the list of $20-million-a-year race car sponsors include Viagra and, reflective
of NASCAR's growing female fan base, Brawny paper towels, Tide, and Betty
Crocker. In a sign of NASCAR's relentless hunger for profit, it even rescinded a
long-standing ban against liquor sponsors to allow Jack Daniels and Jim Beam to
endorse cars in 2005.
In 2004, NASCAR's longtime top sponsor-cigarette maker R. J. Reynolds, which had
been introduced to NASCAR in 1972 by a convicted moonshiner-was replaced by
communications giant Nextel. That $750- million deal symbolized not only the
sport's modern era but the continued decline of the South's ideological
dominance of the sport. As Richard Petty has said, "NASCAR is no longer a
Today, NASCAR's fan base has found a happy home in Los Angeles, Las Vegas,
Dallas, Kansas City, and Chicago. Plans are even afoot for a racetrack near New
York City. Most fans are college-educated, middle- aged, middle-class
homeowners; nearly half are women. At a time when some pro baseball teams play
before paltry crowds of a few thousand, attendance at NASCAR events grows by 10
percent a year. Average attendance at a NASCAR Nextel Cup race is nearly
200,000, three times bigger than the average NFL football game. The sport's
stars are millionaire celebrities who appear in rock videos, date supermodels,
and live in mansions. When Dale Earnhardt died, millions of Americans wept, as
did Parks, who was there that day in 2001 when Earnhardt slammed into the wall
at Daytona. The prolonged mourning for Earnhardt-the sport's Elvis-opened the
eyes of more than a few non-NASCAR fans.
As NASCAR's popularity continues to spread, the sport is becoming a symbol of
America itself. But how did NASCAR happen at all? And why? The answers lie in
the complicated, whiskey-soaked history of the South.
* * *
It's safe to say few of today's NASCAR fans know the name Raymond Parks, nor the
monkey named Jocko, the busty pit-road groupies and brash female racers, the
moonshining drivers named Fonty, Soapy, Speedy, Smokey, Cannonball, Jap, Cotton,
Gober, and Crash. Nor the two intense, freckled friends named Red, one of whom
came up with the name NASCAR-the "National Association for Stock Car Auto
Racing"-and the other of whom became the sport's first champion. And its second.
Unlike baseball and football, which celebrate their pioneers and early heroes,
most of the dirt-poor southerners who founded stock car racing have died or
retired into obscurity. There is no Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb, not even an Abner
Doubleday. A few NASCAR names from the 1950s and '60s might still resonate among
hard-cores: Junior Johnson, Curtis Turner, Fireball Roberts. It's occasionally
noted that Richard Petty's father, Lee, and Dale Earnhardt's pop, Ralph, were
aggressive, dirt-smeared racing pioneers. But, despite the many books that have
proliferated during NASCAR's recent rise to nationwide popularity, the names of
Raymond Parks, Red Byron, Red Vogt, Lloyd Seay, and Roy Hall rarely appear in
Maybe that's because of NASCAR's dirty little secret: moonshine.
The sport's distant, whiskey-fueled origins are usually wrapped into a neat,
vague little clause-"... whose early racers were bootleggers ..."-about as
noncommittal to the deeper truth as crediting pigs for their contribution to
football. Today, if the fans know anything about NASCAR's origins, they might
know the name Bill France. The tall, megaphone-voiced racer/promoter from D.C.
deftly managed to get himself named NASCAR's first president in 1947, then
eventually bought out the organization's other top officers and stockholders to
make himself sole proprietor of a sport that became his personal dynasty. France
is often referred to as NASCAR's "founder," which is oversimplification
bordering on fiction. Largely forgotten from the NASCAR story is this: Bill
France used to race for, borrow money, and seek advice from a moonshine baron
and convicted felon from Atlanta named Raymond Parks.
According to the minutes of the historic 1947 organizational meeting in Daytona
Beach at which NASCAR was born, France envisioned an everyman's sport with
"distinct possibilities for Sunday shows.... We don't know how big it can be
if it's handled properly." Many people over the years-including, right from the
start, Raymond Parks and the two Reds-have argued that France did not handle
things properly. NASCAR certainly succeeded far beyond anyone's wildest postwar
expectations, thanks in large part to the moonshiners who were its first and
best racers. But France held a deep disdain for the whiskey drivers who nurtured
NASCAR's gestation and its early years. He worked hard to distance his sport
from those roots and was not above blackballing any dissenters, as Parks and
both of the Reds discovered.
In striving to create squeaky-clean family entertainment, to the point of
downplaying NASCAR's crime-tainted origins, France buried the more dramatic
parts of NASCAR's story beneath the all-American mythology he preferred. Efforts
to portray stock car racing as a family sport continue to this day. In 2004,
Dale Earnhardt Jr. was fined $10,000 for saying "shit" on national television;
he declined to apologize, saying that anyone tuned in to a stock car race
shouldn't be surprised by a four-letter word. And in 2006, just before the
Daytona 500, NASCAR President Mike Helton told reporters in Washington (Bill
France's hometown) that "the old Southeastern redneck heritage that we had is no
longer in existence." After a backlash from fans, Helton backpedaled, saying
NASCAR was "proud of where we came from." Despite the lip service, in its reach
to a wider audience, NASCAR seems to be losing its vernacular and, in the words
of The Washington Post, "shedding its past as if it were an embarrassing family
Bill France, for better or worse, commandeered stock car racing, declared
himself its king, appropriated its coffers and history, leaving the real but
untidy story behind. He transformed an unruly hobby into a monopoly, then
rewrote the past.
This book, therefore, is the previously untold story of how Raymond Parks, his
moonshining cousins, and their four-letter-word-using friends from the red-dirt
hills of North Georgia helped create the sport that Bill France ultimately made
In the South, where the Great Depression infected deeper and festered longer
than elsewhere, there were few escape routes. Folks couldn't venture into the
city for a baseball game or a movie because there weren't enough cities,
transportation was limited, and the smaller towns rarely had a theater. There
were no big-time sports, either (the Braves wouldn't settle in Atlanta until
1965, and the Falcons a year later). It was all cotton fields, unemployed
farmers, and Depression-silenced mills, mines, and factories. But if you were
lucky enough to have a nearby fairgrounds or an enterprising farmer who'd turned
his barren field into a racetrack, maybe you'd have had a chance to stand beside
a chicken-wire fence and watch Lloyd Seay in his jacked-up Ford V-8 tearing
around the oval, a symbol of power for the powerless. But Seay's racing career
would get violently cut short by his moonshining career, and World War II would
interrupt the entire sport's progression for nearly five years. It wasn't until
after the war that southern racing, helped by an unlikely hero with a
war-crippled leg, regained its footing and momentum. The rough, violent years of
1945 through 1950 would then unfold as the most outrageous years of NASCAR's
For those who were a part of it, who saw it and felt it, it was incredible.
* * *
This is not a book about NASCAR. It's the story of what happened in Atlanta, in
Daytona Beach, and a handful of smaller southern towns before and after World
War II. It's the story of what happened when moonshine and the automobile
collided, and how puritanical Henry Ford and the forces of Prohibition and war
all inadvertently helped the southern moonshiners and their gnarly sport. NASCAR
historians can tell you who led every lap of every race since the organization's
first official contest was won in 1948 by a man named Red Byron. But they
can't-or won't-say much about what happened in the decade before that. If Abner
Doubleday allegedly invented baseball and James Naismith created basketball with
peach baskets and soccer balls at a YMCA, then who created NASCAR?
The answer: a bunch of motherless, dirt-poor southern teens driving with the
devil in jacked-up Fords full of corn whiskey. Because long before there were
stock cars, there were Ford V-8 whiskey cars-the best means of escape a southern
boy could wish for.
Excerpted from Driving with the Devil
by Neal Thompson
Copyright © 2006 by Neal Thompson.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I've been following NASCAR since 1979. Being raised in the south I'd always known there was a connection between bootleggers and stock car racing but Neil Thompson brings to life the history, the drivers and the driven! I found myself excitedly rooting for the likes of Raymond Parks, Red Byron, Seay, Hall, Vogt, Turner, the Flocks and so many others even if it was whiskey trippin' that allowed them each to develop their respective talents. Matter-of-fact it was because of this illegal activity and the ability of Big Bill France to dictate the sports future direction that we can now enjoy the high speed, tactical and often times heart pounding, visually awe inspiring sport of NASCAR. Thanks Neil for your in-depth research and analysis. For connecting the past to the present in a clear and fascinating page turner. Whether or not the France family or Mike Helton or any of their cronies will ever admit or acknowledge it, moonshine fueled the early years and utimately set them up like fat cats and you've laid it all out in print!
In writing this chronicle of the pre-history and early days of NASCAR, what really seems to have fired Thompson's imagination is his linked fascinations with Irish defiance and the cult of whiskey. This leads directly into a history of the bootleggers, who then became the core of early stock-car racing, and who Thompson makes no bones of admiring over and above the dictatorial Big Bill France who exploited their talents. That the book took this turn is probably inevitable, seeing as Thompson's prime source is one Ray Parks, who came out of the ranks of the moonshiners, walked away once he became rich, threw his money at racing, and is pretty much the last of the men who remembers the era well enough to know where the bodies are buried.You also get the story of Red Byron, NASCAR's first champion, but that just isn't as interesting. Bryon is very admirable man but just not as much of a character as so many of the other people wandering through this story.A lot of this is probably old hat to the folks who have been following the sport religiously, but seeing as my tastes in motor sports have tended more towards cars with wings this was an enlightening and entertaining read. If I have to mark it down for anything it's that there are times when Thompson's reverse snobbery towards open-wheel cars, (even dirt sprint cars) gets a little annoying.
Last week¿s Daytona 500 was the most exciting in years. The two leads took themselves out of the race after 130 laps. Harvick¿s photo-finish win against Martin was an incredible 0.02 difference. To top off the excitement, we watched agog as eighteenth place Bowyer crossed the finish line¿upside down and on fire.Can you believe stock car racing heralds back to straight-aways on a Daytona Beach? That is right; before we southerners had an oval, we had a hard packed beach at low tide. Someone had the brilliant idea to connect the parallel A1A Highway by cutting slanted curves through the dunes. This new course promised obstacles such as rogue waves and mud at the bottom of the curves.The official stock car track, roots itself in a forlorn horseracing track at Lakewood, Georgia, not in Indianapolis. Indianapolis might have had the honor if they had not been so haughty. Indianapolis racing began in 1903 with cars made especially for the track. The officials frowned on the new V-8s and outlawed ¿whiskey trippers¿ from the track.Most racers came from the foothills in northeast Georgia, Dawsonville to be exact. Daytona was too far to drive. These bootleggers lined up every weekend at Lakewood to show off police avoiding skills on the red-dirt track with a lake in the middle. For a mere fifty cents, one could lace their fingers in the chicken wire and feel the throaty Ford V-8s as they fought it out for a hundred dollar purse.Neal Thompson, author of "Driving with the Devil," has written about an exciting time in our southern history. He says most of the accolades go to Bill France, but that would be an injustice to the first promoter and original racer, Raymond Parks. In 2003, Thompson traveled to Parks¿ home and interviewed the ninety-one-year-old legend.In this book, the ¿real¿ story is told through first-hand accounts. The reader meets Parks¿ superstar, bootleg-team, Roy Hall and Lloyd Seay, as they achieve certain notoriety for their two-wheel passes in the Daytona curves; and crusty mechanic, Red Vogt explains, ¿Money equals speed.¿Do not miss this book if you care anything about NASCAR. Each chapter packs interesting information and history. I found the race coverage to be like another notorious book, "Seabiscuit." Ew, I can¿t wait to try the 180 degree maneuver bootleggers used to evade the police.
It is wonderful to have suck a detailed look into the birth of NASCAR and the men who gave birth to it. At time it almost felt as it I was in the room with these men.
I have never been a huge fan of, NASCAR but this book might have changed that. The time that Thompson took to give you background information on every single topic that is brought up that you might not know about. I really liked the description and back story that he included to every city and track that was mentioned. Another aspect of this book that I also liked is how the book is set up going chronologically through events jumping to multiple people and showing how they contributed to the sport or how they were an influence on it. Overall I am amazed at the amount of research and fact that are included in this book and I would recommend it to anyone with an interest in NASCAR or just cars in general.
If you love Southern history and racing - you will enjoy this book. Well written and with much research.
I have been intimately involved in NASCAR for 50 years and although the names Parks, Vogt and Byron were familiar, I never knew their stories. This book is a history lesson on more than NASCAR with relevant side-stories about Ford, moonshining, WWII and the poor depression-era South.
I found this book to be a book that I could actually read all the way through without being bored. It definitely showed the hard work and determination needed to bring Nascar to where it is a multi-billion dollar sport today. I definitely recommend reading this book if you like stories about people who are thrill seekers. From moonshinig to racing, you will be eager to turn to the next page.