Doug Wolfgang is one of the greatest sprint car drivers in history. After a fast start in 1975, within two years he rocketed to the top as the most successful driver in the country. His powerful driving skills, along with his eloquent interviews and “everyman” persona, built a wide and passionate fan following that is still present today, 30-plus years after Wolfie’s career was cut short in his prime due to injuries suffered in a fiery crash.

In the summer of 1984 Wolfie’s career was at a crossroads. His last couple of rides had not achieved long-term success. The “doubt and fear” that haunts every racer was very much on his mind. Then, as if the stars moved into perfect alignment, Wolfie got a call from powerful Pennsylvania car owner Bob Weikert. Today, their time together is the stuff of legend; they remain one of the most dynamic pairings in the history of motorsports.

Several years ago Doug and I teamed up for his autobiography, Lone Wolf. The story he told of the very first night in Weikert’s car is one of the most fascinating vignettes I’ve ever encountered. Let’s let Doug tell the story again here, straight out of the pages of Lone Wolf:

Bob Weikert was a prominent Pennsylvania beef rancher who had owned a sprint car since the early 1970s. Some great drivers had been with Bob at one time or another, some of whom had great success. Kenny Weld, for example, won the Knoxville Nationals with Bob in 1972 and ’73.

I first heard from Weikert in June 1984, a day or so after LaVern Nance quit. In fact, after driving from Williams Grove to Sioux Falls, the phone was ringing almost when I walked into our house.

Bob asked if I’d be interested in driving his car. He explained that they had gone through a bunch of cars and engines but they were in the process of regrouping. He was going to let Smokey Snellbaker—a very successful and popular Pennsylvania racer—drive it for a few weeks while they replenished their inventory of spares.

Doug Wolfgang and Bob Weikert in 1985. (Jack Kromer image)

I told Bob I didn’t think I was interested. See, he was a Pennsylvania car owner; by that I mean he only ran in that region. I had raced those tracks before, but I didn’t consider myself a local racer, and sure wasn’t interested in only running there every weekend. After all, I was looking to follow the Outlaws.

Bob was persistent, and I finally said, “I’ll tell you what…when you get all your stuff totally ready, give me a call. Maybe I’ll be interested by then.”

One month later he called again. By this time I had been running for Doug Howells, and I was ready for a change.

I knew almost nothing about Weikert’s operation. He had a father-son team of mechanics, Davey Brown Sr. and Jr. I knew them only casually, but had never worked with them. I had certainly seen the Weikert Livestock car at many races, but I didn’t know much of what the whole deal was all about.

I knew they weren’t afraid to get on the road a little bit and run the bigger races, because I had often seen their car at such events. So I felt like maybe it was a bit of a compromise: Yes, it was a local car (which didn’t thrill me), but on the other hand I could also run some of the big races.

When Bob called me back, I agreed to give it a try for a couple of weeks. You know the drill: “Let’s see how it goes.” Kind of a trial relationship.

I ran for Doug Howells at Cedar Lake, Wis., on July 17, then boarded a flight to Youngstown, Ohio, the following day. I caught a ride from the airport to nearby Sharon Speedway, where I hooked up with Davey Sr. and Jr. for the first time. That night’s race was paying $4,000 to the winner, sanctioned by the All Stars, a touring group that wasn’t quite as big as the World of Outlaws.

Our “two-week trial” was about to begin.

One of the reasons I wanted to give the deal a try was that just prior to his death in a racing accident in 1978, Dick “Toby” Tobias told me that Davey Sr. was a helluva mechanic. Toby really praised him, and that stuck with me. That’s probably what caused me to say yes to Weikert; in the back of my mind I was intrigued with the idea of working with Davey Sr.

The first time you race with somebody new, it’s a matter of everybody feeling each other out. There isn’t a cast-in-stone “right” way to race; there are lots of ways to go about it, and it’s mostly a matter of everybody being comfortable with each other, communicating well, and having some basic chemistry.

Davey Brown Jr. (L), Doug Wolfgang, and Davey Brown Sr. (R) at Williams Grove in 1985. (Jack Kromer image)

Right off the bat, I felt good with these guys. I liked both Browns, and Fred Grenoble, the third crewman who helped with mounting tires and driving the tow rig. We all seemed to match up just right. They had good equipment, for starters. Their motors ran real well. They weren’t what I’d call piping powerful motors, but they made me go fast. I like motors that run into a corner hard because I’m more interested in the entry into the corner than anything. Well, these motors ran great into the corner. I liked it.

We set fast time that night, and won our heat. We were going to start sixth in the feature, and after the heats were over I was in the trailer, putting cover-ups on my helmet.

I’ll never forget what happened next. It stands out in my mind because it perfectly illustrated what it was going to be like working with these guys, and told me we were going to be all right.

Davey Jr. walks into the trailer. “What do you want us to do with the car for the feature? How do you want us to set it up?” Naturally, the track was getting more slippery as the night wore on, and Davey wondered if I wanted them to change the setup accordingly. I hardly looked up from putting the cover-ups on my helmet.

“Oh, I don’t know…I guess whatever you guys normally do…as long as it’s good enough to run second, that’ll suit me.”

Davey looked at me kind of funny and walked out of the trailer. Not five minutes later he comes back in.

“We, uh…we don’t really understand why you want to finish second.”

“No, I don’t want to finish second. I didn’t say that. You asked me how I wanted this car. I said I just wanted it good enough to run second.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, and he walks away.

A minute or so later Davey Sr. comes ambling in. Davey Sr. is more relaxed, a little slower-moving than Davey Jr. Davey Sr. ambled; Davey Jr. walked. There’s a difference.

“We don’t understand,” he drawled, “why you don’t want to win the race.”

I just smiled and said, “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to win or lose. You asked me how I wanted the car. So I answered the question: I want it just good enough to run second.”

He looked at me with kind of a puzzled expression, but nodded his head and ambled back outside.

Jac Haudenschild was in Bob Hampshire’s car that night, and I think he led the first 39-and-a-half laps. But I beat him off the final corner to win it. That felt good, yes, but not as good as the feeling I had from the start of the race, because I knew I was going to get along great with this car and these two guys.

So the car was good enough to run second, but I passed the leader on the final lap and won the race.

We climbed into the hauler and turned east, back toward the team’s shop in Fairfield, Pa., not far from Gettysburg. It’s probably two a.m., and I’m sitting in the back seat of the truck, with Davey Jr. driving and Davey Sr. riding shotgun. I’m about half-asleep when Davey Sr. turns around and looks at me.

“Now I understand,” he said slowly.

“Understand what?”

“I understand what you were talking about, about setting up the car.”

When he said that, I just grinned. I had found a new home.

Do you know what I meant when I told them to give me a second-place car? Let me explain.

Every team wants to hire the best driver they can get. At the same time, every driver wants the best mechanics he can get. Both sides want to be the best, and they’ll both try very hard to hold up their end of the deal, to be the one that makes the difference.

I didn’t want to tell those guys to make the car a hot-rod, capable of lapping the entire field. Because when you tell a set of mechanics that, they’ll try to do it for you. But when you try to make a car killer, killer fast, you can also mess it up to where you can’t drive it.

Wolfie wins at Williams Grove in 1985. (Jack Kromer image)

All I wanted was a nice, consistent car over a period of the next 100 races, which is about a year. If you can get that baby capable of finishing second every night, that’s all I’m asking. Because in that many races, we’ll win 20, 30, 40, because we’re close.

If you can get me close, I’ll make up the difference. That’s what I was telling them. Don’t do back-flips trying to give me a killer car; just get me close, and I’ll do the rest.

What’s really cool was this: On our very first night together, we were already on the same page. Boy, that’s tremendous. Tremendous! I felt so good that night, riding down the Pennsylvania turnpike, it was like I had a new lease on life. I was energized and felt really, really good about how all this was going to work out.

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