The rumble of big blocks and small blocks alike still echoes in my memory, the roar of exhausts bouncing off the darkened fields lining Allensville Road. Back in the ’70s, just a couple of miles outside of town, Todd County had its own little slice of speed—a quarter-mile stretch of straight blacktop we simply called the Quarter.
On Friday and Saturday nights, that strip came alive. We’d roll out from town, our cars polished to a mirror shine, engines tuned to perfection, ready to see who had the fastest machine. The lineup was always impressive: GTOs, Chevelles, Novas, Camaros, and the occasional ’55 Chevy with something special under the hood. We all had our favorites, and we all had something to prove.
There was no official start light, no fancy timing equipment—just one of our own standing between the two cars, arms outstretched, ready to drop them to his sides when it was time to go. The drivers revved their engines, tires screaming against the pavement, and the moment that signal came, they launched like rockets, trying to gain even a fender-length advantage before hitting second gear.
But the Quarter wasn’t all open road. The real trick was knowing when to back out of it at the end because a narrow bridge sat there, followed by a hard curve. If you didn’t let off in time, you were bound for trouble. Most of us learned early to get on the brakes quick, but there were always a few close calls. If I’m not mistaken, there was even a death or two.
People gathered at the “Y” in the road, where Allensville and old Allensville Road split. It was the perfect place—some leaned against their cars, others sat on tailgates, lighting cigarettes or sipping a cold beer while they watched. The air smelled of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, a scent that meant one thing: freedom. The sound of the engines mixed with laughter and the occasional whoop of someone who’d just won a race. Bets were made, hands were shaken, and grudges were settled on that strip of road.
Some nights, the law would catch wind of what we were up to, and the sight of blue lights in the distance sent everyone scattering. We’d tear off in different directions, knowing all the little backroads that could get us out of sight. But somehow, by the next weekend, we were back again, the Quarter calling us like it always did.
Thinking back on those nights, I can still hear the growl of a big-block Chevy as it jumped off the line, feel the vibration of the asphalt under my boots, and see the headlights streaking down that country road like shooting stars. We were young, wild, and full of horsepower—racing not just for bragging rights, but for the sheer thrill of it all.
I don’t know when they first started racing on that strip, and I don’t know when the last set of taillights finally disappeared into the night. But I do know this—those were some of the best times of our lives. The Quarter may be quiet now, but in my heart, it’s still alive. And man… what I wouldn’t give for just one more run.
